


Momento Mori

by Ghostiekitty



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst Train to Hurt/Comfortville, Case Fic, Chooo-Chooooo, Dark, Enemies to Friends, Fatherly Fred, Gen, I Lied I Am Sorry, Morse Whump, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-01-15 21:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18507871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostiekitty/pseuds/Ghostiekitty
Summary: A seemingly routine murder case unearths something from Morse's past.Literally.Set between Series 1 & 2.





	1. Bertie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I aim to post at least once a week.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated! The BEBE is HONGRY.

"Alright, mate! Have a good night, and say hello to the missus for me."

"Ta, Bertie. You do the same, then!" The tinkling of the tarnished bell affixed to the shopkeep's glass door chimed its last goodbye for the evening. It signaled the end of another long, yet profitable day to close out in the register book. Bertie oft entertained thoughts of selling his corner shop and settling down, but he found he would rather miss the daily interactions with his fellow Oxford neighbors. Besides, the local papers would never print even half the gossip repeated back to him on the daily. 

"Not fit to print," the editors might say.

As Bertie stepped into the back room to fetch the shop key for the front lock, knees creaking at the movement after he had stood most the day, he was rather put out in hearing the brass bell ring once more. 

A resigned sigh escaped his lips.

"Sorry, friend," he called out, key in one hand as he ran the arthritic fingers of his other through thinning hair in exhaustion, "I'm shuttered for the night! Be back open at 9 in the morn." He then laid eyes on the visitor now in the middle of the room for the first time, and Bertie's hands immediately dropped to his sides, curled into fists, stocky frame squared by tensed shoulders.

"You've quite a pair on you, I'll say!" he cried out in disgust. "What did I tell you about ever showing your face around here again, you _filthy son of a whore?"_ Bertie's already ruddy face reddened in his anger, made even more livid by his unwanted and still silent visitor.

"Why are you here?" he shouted again when the other made no point to address him. "What the _hell_ do you want, you daft bastard?"

The intruder, similar in age and build as Bertie, said nothing, face still impassive. But, whereas Bertie had enjoyed his middle years, paunch and all, the other was clearly well-muscled and fit, face taut and cheekbones still prominent. Then, with a quickness that belied his solid frame, he quickly rushed the aging shopkeep. Bertie's hands flew up in a defensive manoeuvre, key clattering forgotten to the tiled floor as he was cornered behind the cash desk.

"WAIT! I-I don't want no trouble now, just take what you wa--"

Bertie was then aware of two things: the hand that forcefully gripped his right shoulder and pulled him closer, and the cold steel of the sizeable knife that slashed its way deep into his belly and then out again in a halted and jagged motion. The shopkeep's gaze slid out of focus, eyes warily cast down at the impossible torrents of blood that spilled from inside, mouth open in a silent scream that expired only moments before he knew he would.

Bertie took on the appearance of a distressed perch on the dry banks of the River Cherwell, his spasmed lips agape in both horror and the futile attempt to form words that would never be spoken. His murderer, for that's what he was now, watched with the same impassivity as Bertie sank to his knees and keeled over with trembling hands that clutched uselessly at his irreparable wound.

As he fell back onto the blood-slickened tile, his surroundings dimmed considerably, Bertie was aware of the other man's own descent as he knelt next to him, with no regards to the pooling blood soaking his knees, and took a firm grasp of his left hand. His last cognizant thought he would ever have was that he wasn't being offered comfort in his last moments, but had been given something to hold in his clenched fist.

As his vision faded into a cold and final oblivion, Bertie the shopkeep was unaware that the golden chain of the pendant forced into his palm had fallen from his newly slackened fingers and was now framed in a pool of slick scarlet, and poetically mirrored his own rapidly cooling corpse. The door's bell tinkled once more as the intruder exited, not that Bertie would ever know.


	2. Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cowley Boys receive some unwanted news, and there is bickering.

'Stolen Gold Bullion Valued at 1,000,000 Pounds RECOVERED by Cowley Police!'

The headline gracing the front page of the Oxford Daily Mail that had unceremoniously been dropped onto DC Endeavour Morse's desk with a hearty thump was worthy of being framed and displayed on any of the CPD's many barren, institutional walls, a testament to the perseverance and policework of their fellow officers.

Or, perhaps used as a liner in a birdcage.

Maybe even deposited in a bin. 

That is to say, Morse thought it rather belonged anywhere else at that moment than where it rested on his desk. Slightly perturbed that the newspaper had swooped in like so much an unwanted visitor, having disrupted both his workspace and thoughts, that his exasperation at the interruption was left plainly on his expressive face by the time it had tilted up towards its deliverer.

"What's this, then?" he asked DS Peter Jakes, brow creased as he scrabbled to rescue his own papers that had since scattered to all corners of the desk, before they sailed into oblivion.

"It's a newspaper," Jakes responded in a thickly condescending retort, a single dark eyebrow arching high. "The parts that aren't the crosswords."

Morse clenched his jaw in aggravation, piercing eyes flashing in anger at his tone. "I can see that, obviously, but why couldn't you have just handed it to me?" Jakes studied him for a brief moment, his own dark eyes scrutinizing Morse as though he were no more than a petulant child. He then pulled out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter.

He continued to stare at his subordinate, glancing away only to light the fag. Jakes then shrugged his shoulders non-chalantly as he drew a deep pull on the nicotine. "You wouldn't take it," he replied simply. "So lost in your own barmy thoughts, you were, I got tired of standing here looking a damned fool."

Morse, having collected his papers once more into a stacked and straightened pile, slammed them down on the desk at Jakes' unwarranted assumption, eyes ablaze with incredulity.

"I'm not mad," he spoke deliberately in a clear and steady voice, though it contained a wariness that crept in as an all too-familiar conversation was to be re-hashed for the fifth time in so many months. Morse didn't think he would ever win Jakes' approval, in anything that he did, so long as they both lived and breathed. It was an unfortunate trait shared with his late, inexorable father, one he hadn't the mental energy to push back against. Not anymore, anyways.

_I never liked the police._

"I believe the jury's still out on that one," Jakes sniped low, under his breath, but loud enough for Morse to hear.

Morse closed his eyes. "I'm..." _Not having this conversation again? Tired of your contempt? Going to throw myself into the Thames to avoid working with you?_ Morse shook his head sadly, sighing as he shoved his chair back to scrape loudly against the concrete floor. The noise had garnered the attention of PC Jim Strange and a few passerby, but Morse knew that the former had keyed onto his and Jakes' conversation almost instantly. The young constable was attuned to the continued strife between the two detectives, and Morse had even dared to share his thoughts on his superior to Strange at the pub on occasion, one of the few officers who didn't think him an odd duck. Well, he and the Guv'nor, at least, so there were two. 

His heated gaze met that of Strange briefly before the PC ducked his head sheepishly, and he turned to snatch his suit jacket from where it was draped over the chair. "I'm going out," Morse declared with finality.

Jakes scoffed loudly, taking a long drag on his cigarette before blowing the smoke plume out to the side. At least he wasn't a _complete_ arse. 

On occasion.

"The hell you are!" Peter barked loudly. His tone had made it seem the daftest idea he had ever heard leave Morse's mouth, which Morse knew spoke volumes when he considered that Jakes dismissed nearly two-thirds of his theories for having been 'improbable' or 'crackpot,' even though he was correct over three-quarters of the time. "I need you to catalogue the evidence for this case," he continued, tapping an angry index finger against the offending newspaper. 

The russet-haired detective turned to face him fully, as he buttoned his jacket in anger, eyes wide in defiance. 

"Yes, I am, and no, hardly. Following lines of inquiry is still an actual part of my job description, not cataloguing another officer's evidence. And you know it. Now, if you'll excuse me," he said to Jakes as he roughly returned his chair back under the desk, the sharp scrape having elicited a wince from the other man, "I've a witness I want to question concerning the Ross case--"

" --not this again--!" Peter cried out with a exasperated laugh as he moved to block Endeavour's movement with arms crossed against his chest.

Morse rolled his eyes dramatically in frustration. "We've gone over this! There's something not right about the daughter's story, and you know it--!" 

Peter's pointed finger flew accusingly into his face. "No, Morse, I know there's something not bloody right about _you!"_

_"What in the HELL is going on here?!"_

Both Morse and Jakes, now only inches apart, whipped their heads to the side simultaneously as the thundering voice of DI Fred Thursday startled them both dearly. He approached with a rage rarely focused on his own men, enough to warrant a lowly uttered "Bollocks" from Jakes' lips.

"My office. _NOW."_

Thoroughly chided in front of their peers (Well, Jakes' peers, Morse thought), both DS and DC preceeded Thursday into his office with mutual trepidation. As they awaited the slamming of a door, Thursday called out, "You, too, PC Strange."

Morse's head swiveled on his neck at this, meeting the wide and panicked gaze of the young PC with an equally confused one. Strange swallowed down the sizeable lump in his throat, all eyes in the bullpen on him as he made his way into Thursday's office, wondering all the while just what in the hell he had done to be pulled into this disastrous little getogether. Thursday held the door open for him as he entered, and grabbed the copy of the Daily Mail from Morse's desk in passing.

While the door wasn't slammed shut as loudly as anticipated, Morse supposed it was more for Jim's benefit than anything else. Strange stood off to the side, leaving the detectives to stand front and center before Thursday's livid visage. He remained where he stood, and stared at them both for the longest of tense moments, Jakes with his head down and Morse unconsciously rubbing the back of his neck, before he spoke.

"I expect better of you," Thursday declared roughly, "both of you." He eyed them warily as they commenced fidgeting even more, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. 

Good, thought Fred.

"You should both thank your lucky stars that Mr. Bright is on holiday, or we'd all be getting reamed out right now," he said angrily, then turned to address Strange in the corner. "Not you, lad, you've done nothing wrong."

Morse rather imagined he heard Jim deflate in visible relief upon hearing his guv'nor's words, responding with a grateful, "Sir."

"Though," Thursday continued, "you are probably wondering why I've dragged you in here." He glared back at his two detectives. "All of you."

Both Jakes and Morse remained silent, though the latter acknowledged the query with a quick nod of his head. They then watched as Thursday held the blasted copy of the Oxford Daily Mail that Morse now had wished never existed, although in all honesty, Jakes would have found another way to raise his hackles as the day wore on. 

"You've all seen this by now, I suspect, " Thursday began, his anger having simmered, but nonetheless present. "A couple hundred gold bars, all to be catalogued by the PCs that recovered them (Morse felt his heart leap in retribution at this) and then stored." Jakes looked at him quizzically, eyebrows furrowed as he considered the size of the hoard. 

"Stored where, sir? The evidence room is full enough as it is now."

"Correct. Which is why we're going to make room by moving everything in the current locker to the supplemental one in the sub-basement level." He watched his subordinates' faces as they displayed emotions that ranged from disappointment, to dread, to outright resignation. "Of course, by 'we,' I mean you three. And," he concluded, the hint of a smile having appeared at the corners his lips, "you're going to be doing it together, as a team. Or, you'll all be lugging gold bars below ground, instead."

The trio before him remained absolutely silent, uncertain whether the punchline had yet to come, Fred mused as they stared dumbfounded. But, as it turns out, he wasn't finished yet. "PC Strange has been brought on to supervise the operation, and to make certain you two don't come to blows." 

Morse felt his face flush in embarrassment, never having had so little thought of him in his tenure at the Cowley PD. The high color that arose in Jakes' cheeks made it apparent that he hadn't, either. A quick glance at Strange revealed the PC to be clenching his jaw, most like to hold whatever giddy emotion he wished to display in check. With a final nod, Thursday dismissed them with the parting words, "You have until tomorrow."

Peter froze at this revelation mid-stride as he exited Thursday's office, waiting until he was clear down the hallway before muttering, "Where's a bloody murder when you need one?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Chapter Three: A Bloody Murder.


	3. A Bloody Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jakes gets his wish, and Morse makes a truly unnerving discovery.

"This is asinine," Jakes declared angrily, taking in the single, swinging lightbulb and cobwebs that were the distinguishing features of Evidence Locker No. 2. All had shucked their outer vests, lest they fall victim to the layers of dust waiting to swallow them whole in the dimly lit room, shirtsleeves rolled up past their elbows.

"No offense, Strange," he continued, "but this should have been a PC's job."

Morse spun 'round on him, eyebrows raised as high as they would go in disbelief. "Unbelievable! You're certainly one to talk concerning our assigned duties--!" 

Jakes' lit cigarette then came dangerously close to Morse's cheek as he thrust it in anger, causing him to stumble back into one of the shelves with a clatter. "You have some nerve, clever clogs," spat Jakes, drawing a deep breath to continue, which he soon realized was a terrible mistake. The shelf that Morse had banged into had upset an entire cloud of dust, and with one inhale, Peter had sent it careening into his own lungs. 

A violent coughing fit prevented any further malicious words from Jakes, who exited the room quickly for fresh air. "I'm going upstairs," he croaked, "Get this nonsense over with." 

Strange waited until the DS was clear out of earshot before addressing Morse, who had since dusted himself clean. "Can't say he didn't deserve that," Jim mused, to which Morse replied with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm not inclined to disagree with you, guv'nor."

Both men shared a low chuckle at the use of Strange's temporary moniker, and prayed neither Jakes nor Thursday were around to hear them. 

Strange sighed. "Let's get this over with, then, eh, Matey?"

_______________________________________________

Nearly three hours had passed in relative silence as DS, DC, and PC alike worked together to put a sizeable dent in their assigned task. Strange had been relieved he hadn't actually needed to break up any fights, and Endeavour was glad for the silence as it gave his mind time to try and work out the particulars of the Ross case he so eagerly wanted solved. Peter had grudgingly admitted to himself that Morse was stronger than he looked, able to carry his own weight with the lifting, and even some of Peter's own as one overloaded box would have had its contents upended, if not for Morse's quick reflexes as he assisted with the other half of Peter's load. A quickly muttered "thanks" may have left Jakes' lips, not that he would ever admit to it.

It was as they made their hundredth trip, or so it had felt, to the upstairs evidence locker, their persons covered in dust, sweat, and grime, that Thursday appeared before they could enter, a grim look upon his weathered face.  


"One of you lot gets a break," he motioned towards them. "There's been a murder."

"Who's up, sir?" Jakes asked eagerly, knowing full well who was on deck.

Thursday cocked a disapproving eyebrow at his barely contained excitement. "You are."

Morse silently exhaled a sigh of relief, though whether it was due to not having to deal with the deceased or a car ride with Thursday presently, he couldn't say.

Jakes nodded once with a quick, "Sir," before he fled to grab his belongings.

Thursday looked inside the room, pleasantly surprised that nearly half the boxes had already been re-located. "Nice work," the DI declared, and turned back to his remaining officers. "You lads should take a rest, perhaps head to the pub for a nice lunch and a pint." He cocked his head, eyebrows raised. "Or two..."

Strange beamed with the approval, which also could have been the glistening sheen of sweat present on his cheeks, Morse wasn't entirely certain. "Thank you, sir," he smiled gratefully, and immediately set off to collect his jacket. Morse turned to follow Jim, a quick nod and a smile aimed in Thursday's direction, but was held in place by Fred's hand on his shoulder.

"Morse... wait." Thursday hadn't intended on saying anything, but it was too late for that now, wasn't it? It had been the shame and embarrassment that still haunted Morse's eyes that had given him pause, even though his detective's chin was presently tipped towards his chest as he turned to face his guv'nor. 

Morse's gaze focused everywhere but Thursday's own, his free hand reaching up to tug at his earlobe nervously with long fingers. "Morse," Thursday started again, "you can't keep letting him get to you like that." Endeavour looked up then, brilliant eyes incredulous.

"Can't I?" he responded with a suspiciously watery laugh, and averted his gaze once more. 

Thursday sighed, giving his bagman's shoulder a hearty clap. "No, lad. You can't." Morse nodded absently, and cleared his throat gently. "Go on, then," he smiled sadly, "Strange is waiting for you, I reckon."

"Sir." 

Thursday watched as Morse all but flew from his sight. Fred took his hat off with a slow exhale before he smoothed his hair back into place, hat affixed once more in preparation for the crime scene.

And the long talk he would have with one DS Peter Jakes enroute.

__________________________________________________

Morse and Strange returned from the pub with slightly less energy than they had that morning, and mostly worked the remainder of the day in silence due to their encroaching exhaustion. They had a congenial enough conversation at lunch, mostly due to Morse's efforts to direct any topics away from the events of that morning at all costs, much to Strange's dismay ("He only antagonizes you because you let him," had been Jim's take on the matter).

It had gone nearly half-past three when they emerged from their cave below, and only a fourth of the original load remained. As they trudged upstairs, both men stopped to find Jakes on the next level as he headed down. "Back to join the fun?" Strange joked tiredly, and ignored the look of utter disdain Peter had cast in his direction.

"No...I, um, actually came down here for Morse."

This had been uttered quietly, not like Jakes' usual self-assured nature. Morse watched him warily, and detected something off about Peter's usual manners. _Ah_ , he thought as he studied the slumped posture of his normally poised co-worker, _there it was._ He had clearly been thoroughly chastised by his superior, and well, didn't that make that two of them? But, no, this was different.

Peter cleared his throat. "Thursday thought you might give me a hand with the evidence we've collected."

Morse then asked him point-blank, curious as to how far the admonishment had been. "And you?"

Peter looked up at him briefly. "I could use another pair of eyes, if I'm being honest." 

Pretty damned far, Morse concluded. "Alright, then. I'll just help Strange with one more load--" Jim waved him off.

"I've got it Morse. You lads go solve your puzzles," he added with a wink. If the PC was to be king for a day, he should make it count.

Morse then followed Peter back up the stairs, and he noted that the DS' sluggish movements mirrored his own. A long day for all involved, then. "How...how was it? The crime scene."

Jakes actually stopped on the landing, and turned to his colleague, slim face unguarded. "Bloody awful, I'd say. Knife across the gut. You would have completely lost it." He paused, his dark eyes narrowed in disgust. "The amount of blood was...staggering." Morse faltered in his next steps, forever grateful he had been tasked to sling boxes instead.

Once by their desks, Morse noted that Thursday peered cautiously at their approaching forms, a slightly satisfied smile evident in the upturned corners of his mouth. He nodded silently at them, and returned to his report writing. Jakes sorted through the plastic bags of crime scene ephemera on his desk, before he grasped one in particular. "Here," he declared, "It's got some form of writing on the back, but it's quite faded. Maybe you can make heads or tails of it."

Morse took the bag, the label having identified it as 'One Gold Necklace' of indeterminate provenance. Inside, he saw a simple pendant, an oval no larger than the top joint of his thumb, a thin linked chain with obvious blood residue connected to a small loop on top. The front bore a simple cross etched into the face, a bit faded but still identifiable, perhaps from being rubbed constantly...

He had seen this design before.

_Endeavour is a child of six, long before he would ever be 'Morse,' and his mother has taken him into her lap as they sit together in the grass on a warm spring day, watching the butterflies in her garden come to life seemingly overnight. He rests his head back against her shoulder as she idly strokes her elegant fingers through his hair, the sun highlighting both of their locks in a fiery glow that matches their inherent personalities. Her other hand is playing with something around her neck, a necklace, one usually kept hidden under pretty, lightweight blouses this time of year._

__

_He sees her rubbing a thumb absently over the face of it, humming quietly to herself as she notices him looking up at her, his eyes twinkling in the sun like faceted sapphires. She smiles and kisses the soft crown of his head, and they continue to watch Spring's miracles manifest themselves with each passing moment, content in their bliss._

_"Morse!"_

__

_But he wouldn't be Morse until much later, he's too young to be--_

"Morse!" 

He snapped his head up at the insistent sound, eyes slightly unfocused as he was violently pulled from the very specific and tangible memory, gaze realigned as it settled on Jakes before him. Peter leveled him with a queer look, but said nothing for it. "So? Could you read it, or not?"

Morse swallows hard around an inexplicable lump in his throat, and glanced back to the necklace before looking up at Jakes again. "I-I don't know, yet. The front, the design is familiar to me. It's been years, but..." 

"But?" Peter had grown impatient, but controlled his expression well.

But? But, there must have been dozens produced like this, it means nothing, and the front has been rubbed off, as if by a thumb, but another thumb, surely...

Endeavour slowly turned the plastic bag over in his hands, and unconsciously held his breath as he did so. When he finally exhaled, it was a low sound made somewhere in the back of his throat, tinged with disbelief, mourning, and sorrow. 

But? But certainly, his eyes had deceived him. Both the impossibility and implications of what he held in his hand had tilted his entire world on its axis, and Morse isn't inclined to believe anything can ever right it again.  


'"I-It says, _'C E...C E M."_

As plain as day, if one knew how to read the faded cursive script.

It wasn't his first time...

Morse's vision was distorted as he glanced up at his colleague, whose own widened eyes were full of... _concern?_ That'll be the day, he thought. He then realized that the distortion was but temporary, having cleared up after a tear escaped unwarranted down his cheek. The young detective angrily wiped a palm across both of his eyes, erasing the evidence of their offending presence.

Jakes' brow furrowed as he stepped closer, voice lowered. "Alright then, Morse?" 

Endeavour's throat worked a long moment before he found himself able to reply. 'I...I don't know, " he answered truthfully. "This has to be a mistake, I _have_ to be mistaken--" he stopped himself, eyes clenched shut so that Peter could not peer inside and watch as he unraveled. " _This,_ " Morse declared as he held the pendant up for Jakes with a fierce gaze, _"cannot_ be here."

A slight shiver rattled Peter's spine, and he didn't like any direction that Morse's cryptic conversation might have possibly been headed. Not one bit. He eyed Morse with caution. While he certainly sounded starkers, the slight tremble in his colleague's frame paired with the intensely haunted look in his eyes suggested that something was very clearly _very_ wrong.

"Why do you say that?" he asked hesitantly, voice slightly strained with morbid curiosity.

Morse glanced down at the pendant, and tried valiantly to keep his soft voice from wavering. "The last time I saw this was... _sixteen_ years ago, on the day of my mother's funeral." Jakes waited for him to continue on his own time, heart hammering when Morse next spoke.

 _"Constance Elizabeth Morse,_ " he explained in a cracked voice as he grasped the pendant. "She was buried with this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this early, so Happy Friday!


	4. Voluntary Madness

Jakes had stood motionless, transfixed by Morse's ghastly revelation, and the implications that stemmed from it. 

Had the deceased been a grave-robber and come across the necklace, or perhaps it was the murderer himself? Had the item been pawned, and if not, how did it come to be above ground? The suspect had been largely assumed to be a man at the onset due to the sheer strength needed to slice open the belly of another with that amount of violence, but they'd been proven wrong before. Whereas Jakes had stilled previously, snapping out of his horrified stupor only to usher a rapidly paling Morse into Thursday's office ( _"What's this now?"_ the DI had declared in concern), he now finished his third cigarette in the last half-hour. Peter was as jittery as hell, his shoe _tip-tapping_ on the tiled floor, but his nerves had been calmed somewhat. Which was more than he could have said for Morse.

The copper-headed DC sat hunched over with elbows perched on his knees, nearly motionless in the chair before Thursday's desk, head supported by his palms as he stared at a fixed spot on the floor, his normally bright eyes dulled to a dark grey. Usually the complete opposite of Jakes, whose only tic was smoking, he found that the younger man's lack of nervous energy disconcerted him. Whereas the fantastic engine in Morse's brain generally whirred at a hundred clicks a minute to everyone else's fifty, it seemed as if someone had simply turned his motor off, and left the cold, abandoned chassis on the roadside.

Like a discarded corpse.

Jakes broke the elongated silence first. "Sir, if I may, perhaps I could go check in on Dr. DeBryn for any updates? He's sure to have something by now."

Thursday nodded in agreement. "Yes, please. Keep me updated as soon as he's made any determinations." 

Morse lifted his head at this, and his eyes followed Jakes' _clacking_ footsteps towards the door. "Sir," he piped up warily, "perhaps I should go with Sergeant Jakes, see if I recognize the victim--"

Thursday looked at him sadly, and cut him off before Morse could seriously begin to entertain the idea. "Morse, I really don't think that's the best place for you to be right now, do you?" He then glanced at Jakes, who had momentarily paused in the doorway. "Thank you, Sergeant," he acknowledged in gratitude, a clear indication that Jakes would travel to the morgue _solo_. Before he exited, Peter turned back to address a dejected Morse for a brief moment.

"For what it's worth, Morse," he hesitated, and waited for his colleague's gaze to meet his own, "I'm sorry. Truly, I am."

Though Morse's expression was largely unidentifiable, he read the gratitude present in his watery blue gaze. Jakes shut the door quickly behind him before he could answer, leaving Thursday and his junior detective alone.

The trio had worked through a myriad of possibilities in that last half-hour, each leaving Endeavour as numb-stricken as the last. The facts of the case remained as such: that one Bertrand Williams, aged 65, had been found gutted in the corner shop he had owned for the past fifteen years by a frequent patron concerned enough to ring the police when he had been an hour late to open. Like clockwork Bertie was, and well-liked by those that had known him. Peering through the glass door, the large pool of blood had been unmistakable. Fred himself would soon follow-up on any leads that concerned his life prior to that of a shopkeep at aged 50.

The unknowns were focused around the motive for the killing, and also the who. And, not least of all, how Bertie had come to be in possession of a necklace upon his moment of death that once belonged to the long-deceased Constance Morse, which should have been buried with his bagman's mother, and not temporarily locked away in an evidence bag for further analysis. Thursday's money was on the crime of grave-robbery, though the particulars of the hypothetical thief's victims left much to be determined. The most direct route to the Lincolnshire churchyard was nearly three hours distance, but the gap that connected it to Bertie Williams was currently much larger. Nothing about any theory made any possible sense, not that Morse would entertain any of them. The unspoken one, hinted at through shared looks between Thursday and DS Jakes, was that the younger DC was being personally targeted once more, but they would come to that conclusion when the detective work supported it.

"Morse," Thursday said quietly after a few minutes silence had passed, "go home, get some rest. We can start fresh tomorr--"

"--no," Morse interrupted quite firmly, shaking his head as he looked up at his superior. He paused, face contorted in a grimace. "I'm sorry, sir, that came out wrong. I meant..." Here he ran a hand over his face, and scrubbed at tired eyes. "I only meant that I'd like to give a look over the rest of the evidence collected," here Thursday raised a eyebrow, "until the regular end of my shift, that is...I don't think I'll be able to rest tonight (Thursday noticed that he didn't say _sleep_ ) if I don't at least do that."

Thursday gave thought to the detective's request, and casted a long, pointed look at the clock in his office. "One hour," he conceeded, after a moment, "or I'll drag you off myself." Morse nodded his thanks, a brief but sad smile alighting his features.

"Thank you, sir. I mean it."

Fred smiled back, and carefully watched Morse as he exited the office. He sincerely hoped there was a logical explanation for everything, if only for the sake of his DC's mental health alone.  
______________________________________________________________________________________

It had only been an hour, but to Morse that hour had meant the world to him. He couldn't go home, not yet. Not with his very sanity at stake. He had been careful, perhaps more than usual, in his study of the evidence at hand. Nothing made sense, given what had been collected. It didn't present itself as a particularly unique case, save for the inexplicable appearance of the pendant. 

_On the wrong side of the grave..._

Morse swallowed hard, and quickly banished the errant thought to the furthest recesses of his mind. There could very well be two of the same necklace, one in Lincolnshire, and the other in the listless hand of a murdered shopkeep in Oxford. He remained stalwart in his refusal to entertain the obvious connection. He couldn't. Not in public.

His thoughts were interrupted as Thursday's door creaked open, and a quick glance at the clock signified that his time was up. The DI stood in the doorway, arms crossed as he walked over next to Morse. "Anything?" he queried. 

Morse sighed a "No," the constant clicking of his pen having halted at his admission. He looked up as Thursday's hand grasped his shoulder warmly. The DI looked hesitant, but continued nonetheless. "If you have a moment, before you leave, there's something I'd like to discuss," he requested, and motioned Morse into his office. The young man looked wary, but quietly closed the door behind him as he followed Fred inside.

"Morse..." Thursday began, quite flustered, or so Endeavour imagined, "Oh, I'm no good at this, lad, but just hear me out." When he was certain the other wasn't going to bolt for the door, looking more confused than scared, Fred pushed on. "If you don't feel comfortable staying home alone tonight, with just a bottle for company, then you're more than welcome to stay with Win and me, if you'd prefer. She cooks for an army, and you'd be no bother at all--"

" _'Drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness,'_ " Morse quoted, a small smile quirking his lips, and that was the _very_ last response Fred expected to hear. Morse then continued by way of explanation, "And I certainly don't need any more _madness_ in my life than I have right now."

At Thursday's bemused expression, Morse cut to the quick. "I don't plan on drowning my sorrows with a bottle, Sir, if that's what you're worried about. But, thank you, nonetheless."

Thursday studied his bagman for a moment, and gauged the veracity of this statement for himself. When he felt Endeavour to be truthful, he guessed, "Hemingway?"

"Seneca The Younger. Sir."

Thursday mused on that a moment longer. "Hemingway should have read _him_ , then."

A full smile brightened Morse's expression at the joke, and it enlivened Fred's, too. He'll be alright...

A quick series of loud raps on the door heralded what Thursday hoped to be the answers to Jakes' earlier enquiries. "Come in, then," Fred's voice called.

As Peter entered, it wasn't with his usual swagger or directness, and it set Morse on edge immediately. Jakes all but slammed the door behind him in his urgency, eyes having alighted on Morse alone. "What is it, Jakes? You've obviously some information or another."

His sergeant rather thought the DI's observation an understatement. Jakes turned his gaze from Morse's, who had cast his eyes to the floor to escape the intensity of whatever news Peter had learned from DeBryn. "Sir, cause of death was as expected," he spoke quickly. "Complications from being gutted with a knife." He noted that Thursday's face contorted in disgust at his DS' informality, but before he could admonish him, Peter once more turned back towards Morse.

Jakes hesitated uncharacteristically, mouth suddenly dry as he turned the full attention of his pointed gaze towards his younger colleague. "Morse...there's something else," he stammered, and watched as the DC's gaze slowly lifted from the floor to meet his own with trepidation. "DeBryn called up to Lincolnshire, to the churchyard cemetery. The local boys are, um, they're on the scene, but there...were obvious signs of a heavy disturbance at your mother's gravesite. They need you to contact them about a reburial immediately. I'm...Morse, I'm _so_ sorry," Jakes finished in a rush.

Endeavour blinked uncomprehendingly once at this news, then again, expression frighteningly blank as his colour paled. Then, suddenly, his unfocused blue eyes slipped back into their sockets, the brilliant whites visible only seconds before he collapsed to the floor below like so much dead weight. The white noise that enveloped him as he fell buzzed loudly enough to drone out the panicked and distressed shouts of his colleagues, blissfully unaware as he landed in a graceless heap in the middle of his guv'nor's office.


	5. A Long Time Comin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are coming along quicker than anticipated, so expect more updates! In this installment, Morse and Jakes have a much needed chat.

_...or...aven....akes...lad....ake...up!_

_He...no...spon...ve..._

_Mor...ease...ake...p!_

_...ant me...all...Bryn?_

_Morse...ake up..._

_Morse...orse!_

"Good _Christ_ , Endeavour, wake up!"

And so, he did. 

Not with a bang, but with a whimper. Literally.

The frightened sound escaped his mouth in a sob, as ginger lashes rapidly fluttered open to assess his surroundings. Confusion colored his normally brilliant blue eyes, blown wide in fear as he regained consciousness. Morse came to the realization that he lay horizontal on the floor, and faces he recognized hung down over his.

Thursday's normally slicked hair drooped disheveled over his forehead, and unflappable Jakes looked startled beyond measure. Both knelt on the cold tile next to him. "Wha' 'appen'd?" his voice warbled when he realized he did not know.

"You fainted," Peter responded softly, without a single trace of relish or malice in his voice. 

Endeavour eyed him quizzically. "Why wou'd I-- _oh..._ " he ended, the word having left his mouth in a deflated sigh as he recalled Peter's last words to him. _...a reburial..._ He twitched the fingers on his right hand, to be certain they were attached, and then brought it up to run the trembling digits through his hair. He then tried the left hand, too, but a sudden stiffness halted his movements. Thursday's own was at the ready, and pushed down gently on his lower left arm.

"You fell on your left shoulder," Thursday explained, an unidentifiable emotion in his voice. "Might be in pain for awhile, but it saved your head from taking the brunt. Neck might be a bit stiff, though." Morse nodded, and very slowly attempted to sit up.

He sat upright awkwardly with his legs folded underneath him, weight redistributed to his right side as he held himself up with his good arm. Endeavour blinked as his vision readjusted, and ducked his gaze from those nearest him. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "How _embarrassing..._ "

There was no mistaking the relieved tone in Thursday's voice when he spoke next. "Just never do that again, eh, lad?" Morse nodded with a shy quirk of his lips, and watched as Thursday stood. "Think you can stand?"

Both Peter and Fred helped him regain his dignity, though Morse feared some of that bled into the cracks as he had lain on the floor. "Alright, then," Thursday declared as his DC remained upright on his own. "This will all be here tomorrow, save for you, Morse." His bagman didn't even have the strength to argue. "Take a day to...sort matters," he said vaguely, and Morse nodded in a bleary acquiescence. "And if you need anything...I'm but a phone call away."

"Jakes," the DI continued, " would you mind taking Morse home?"

"Of course not, sir. See you in the morning." He then turned to Morse, "Well, c'mon then."

Thursday watched as the nearly translucent form of his bagman followed his sergeant from the office, and waited until they were out of sight before he collapsed heavily into his chair, and an impossibly weighted hand ran roughly over his scalp. 

This case had already taken a toll on them, and it had only just begun. Fred Thursday then found himself afraid of what would be left of Morse to salvage in the end, or if there would be anything left at all.  
_________________________________________________

The silent ride home with Jakes would have been awkward at best, had Morse not been so bloody exhausted. He felt utterly wrecked, shattered even, and there was nothing for it. Peter had only spoken once ( _'Scared the piss out of him, you did, though he'll never admit it,'_ in reference to Thursday and Morse's sudden collapse) but he wasn't certain what he was supposed to say to that, so he didn't. Something Morse had wanted to ask the DS for months settled into his mind, and he knew if he didn't question him about it now, he might not have ever received an opportunity like this again.

"Can I ask you a question?" Morse began, still uncertain if he should ask it, until it had been too late.

"Wot?" Jakes responded absentmindedly.

"Do you hate me?"

Morse couldn't have been certain of the answer he would have received upon asking, but he imagined it to be somewhere along the lines of, _"Obviously, you pretentious git,"_ or, _"Haven't you worked it out by now? You really are a piss-poor policeman!"_ What he hadn't expected was the look of utter revulsion Peter cast in his direction before he jerked the wheel so badly in shock that he nearly wrecked the car.

Morse's hand flew towards the door handle to brace himself for impact with a loud gasp. The crisis was averted, however, as Jakes regained control of the steering. His superior then shot him another look of horror.

"Are you barking _mad?_ " he cried, and levelled a look at Morse that clearly suggested he was. "Are you quite honestly this _bloody_ barking mad?"

Morse looked affronted, and replied, " _No!_ " with an exasperated scoff. "Though I know you _think_ I am. You tell me at _least_ once a week, if not more, that you think I'm absolute stark-raving lunatic, and why? You've been obvious about your disdain for me since I met you, but I need to know how deeply that disdain runs if I'm ever to have a functioning work relationship with you, because you...you..." here Morse flailed his arms in frustration, mindful of his left shoulder, "you make my life an absolute living _hell_ sometimes, and I don't even know _why!_ What did I _ever_ do to deserve the way that you treat me?!"

Peter said nothing, but Endeavour could tell his jaw had clenched so tightly one might have heard the teeth being ground against one another, if one were so inclined to listen closer. Morse was not. "You think I hate you, Morse? Really, truly _fucking_ hate you? Unbelievable." Morse stared dumbfounded, unsure how that was an explanation. 

"Yes," he replied softly, after a moment's thought, "I do. I need to know that you would have my back, if it came down to it, but I think you see me as a liability, and I'm not sure if you would. Back me up, that is. I just...that's how I feel. I'm sorry if I _upset_ you," he finished with a slightly sarcastic tone.

Peter pulled his car alongside the kerb near Morse's bedsit, the idling engine the only sound for quite some time. "Morse," he started, having calmed in contemplation, "I don't hate you. I'm sorry you think that way." He continued, and Morse did listen. "I meant what I said today, about being sorry. Because I truly am just that: _sorry_. God knows how I'd be handling any of this if it were someone I loved, but you're not doing half-bad."

Morse's eyebrows quirked up at this. "Except for the fainting part," he muttered. Jakes cocked an eyebrow at him from the driver's seat.

"That's why I said not 'half' bad." He shrugged , and forged on. "You take things to heart too easily, you need to develop a thicker skin--"

At this, Morse interrupted. " _Thicker skin?_ In the past year, I've already been shot _and_ stabbed!" he declared petulantly.

Jakes issued a heavy sigh. "That's not what I meant, and you know it, Morse." Morse turned to look out the window briefly before he bodily turned back to Peter, who continued. "If you keep things, this job, my... _jabs,_ I suppose, too close to heart, it'll destroy you, in the end. And I don't want to see that happen. You're an _irritating prick_ sometimes, but a brilliant detective, and you're a credit to the force. And I'm telling you this because I don't hate you. Are we clear?" Jakes then turned his intense gaze on him, and waited for confirmation. 

__Morse considered his words, and nodded in understanding. "Yes, we are, but...don't call me _mad_ , or _batty_ anymore." He looked directly at Jakes with the expression of one at wit's end as he implored, _"Please. "_ __

____

____

Peter nodded firmly, and then reached into the center console for a pack of smokes and his lighter. Before he lit up, he clarified, "What Thursday said, about calling him if needed? Same goes for me. We'll find who did this, Morse. I assure you. It's what we do." 

At this, Jakes smiled and lit the end of his cigarette, the dim light having briefly chased away the darkness. Same as Peter just had, in his own way. Morse thanked him quietly as he exited, and walked wearily towards his home. Grimy, exhausted, and frazzled, he knew that as terrible of a day as it had been, tomorrow would be worse. 


	6. What's Done is Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters that I had planned as a paragraph but ended up being one of the longest, and most favorite to date. Lots of angsty introspection, and Jakes is propositioned.

Though he had been but a boy of twelve, Endeavour recalled his mother's funeral as though it were a more recent memory. It had been a simple affair, respectful of Constance's Quaker beliefs, and his father had requested an open casket viewing prior to the service, a rare request within the community. It was granted, nonetheless. Morse had always assumed he had done so to make up for the time they had been apart, but his father had Gwen now, and unfortunately that meant Endeavour would have her, too. She refused to attend the services, and honestly, why would she? He wouldn't have wanted her to be there, anyways. A younger mate of Cyril's had attended in her stead, perhaps to not make him appear as friendless as he truly was. They fooled no one. 

_"Buck up, boy," the other man had told him after they lowered her casket into the ground, "What's done is done. Ashes to ashes, and all that." This had been said to a grieving child, with no measure of sympathy that could be discerned as the man struck a sparking match for a cigarette. Endeavour had looked away from his Da's 'friend' to find his father staring at him from a distance, utter disdain plain on his features. Though he was surrounded by a plethora of mourners from a community that had loved his mother, he had never felt as friendless and alone as he had upon realizing his father did not think of him as a son, but as a burden._

It had been the worst day of Endeavour's young life thus far. 

Until today.

He hadn't experienced the overwhelming and crushing sense of _finality_ when his father passed just months prior, not as he had with his mother. Morse expected it was less to do with having been more mature, and more to do with the absolute truth that Cyril had been complete rubbish as a paternal figure. To him, leastways. He had always been fond of Joycie, but Morse never let that colour his love for his half-sister. No, he had experienced a healthy dose of _regret_ at the elder Morse's last words, but not because they were his final ones to the son he'd always felt ambivalent towards. So much else could have been said in their stead, but yet, had not been.

Now, Morse sat in his chair, phone on his lap, paper and pen poised on the armrest for important notes and instructions. He had slept fitfully the night before, as gauged by the state of the sheets twisted about him when he had awakened. He hadn't thoroughly rested, but truthfully he remembered naught after he had showered and collapsed into bed. A fair part of the morning had been spent working up the nerve to call those in charge of Constance Morse's burial plot, because he had been reluctant to discuss with them a situation he had yet to accept as reality. After twenty minutes of further hesitation, he tugged at his earlobe one last time and quickly dialed the numbers.

The phone rang but twice before it was picked up.

"Um, hello, I...I was...told to call you. I--" Endeavour had frozen, completely unsure of how to continue. Thankfully, the older woman on the other end must have been quite used to these types of calls, those stuttered and stammered conversations of the lost.

He was led with both prompts and platitudes through the difficult dialogue that followed for fifteen awful minutes.  


Before it had begun, it was over, at least in Morse's mindset. He thanked the nameless voice on the other end, and mechanically rested the phone back in its cradle. He sat motionless for a moment more, his eyes having slowly strayed to the notepaper at his side. It was filled with hastily-composed scrawls and numbers, some calendar dates, and others monetary in nature. He also hadn't remembered writing any of them down. Once the other voice started talking him through the process, then that meant that the unfathomable act...

Had. 

Actually.

 _Happened_.

Morse had looked down at the paper again, scrawls and figures having converged into one, bleary mess. A small droplet _spattered_ onto the page, and then another, and then a third and fourth before he realized he had begun to cry. The tears were quick to wet the paper into translucency, and he slipped it from long, numb fingers to cast it unwanted to the ground. In that instant, the taut wire keeping him together _snapped_ spectacularly, and his body curled into itself as it crumpled like a ball of paper. A gasping sob arose from within, and was released as one great, piercing wail of sorrow. Eyes squeezed shut against his overwhelming grief, his hand sought to tightly contain his cries from escaping trembling lips. The torrent of emotions proved too much for Morse to control, however, and all sense of composure was rent asunder.

_Suddenly, he was twelve again, and the casket was lowered into the ground, with none but his callous father to help facilitate his grief. So, really, no one at all._

_"What's done is done," the man had said_. ___________________________________________________________________________________

The night prior, Thursday had spent a restless evening safely at home in the arms of his beloved, but a hot meal and a comfortable bed did not a fortress make. Not against the intrusive and dark thoughts brought on by what had been revealed the afternoon prior, a particularly distressing turn of events he wanted no part in comprehending. What was it in the nature of men that drove them to such acts of callousness and brutality? He didn't understand it on the Front, and he understood it even less when men weren't reacting to their inherent need to survive during wartime. It was a question Fred had been careful to leave at the hat stand for all these years, for he never wanted his family to know the answers to such queries.

The DI had considered the lasting effects of their current case on his bagman, but Morse had never really been just his bagman, had he? While he was an autonomous adult capable of following his own path through life, Thursday also understood that he was but a few years older than his Joanie, and he often watched her struggle to come to terms with the world's inherent darkness. Though he had seen boys far younger cut down with German bayonets by the thousands, that was a different time, as those that fought had believed in a purpose on either side of the lines. Now, men and women were shot in fits of jealous rage, knocked down like so many tin cans on a fence. Men were beaten to death for looking and loving differently, women for daring to even think as much. It was one of the many reasons Fred Thursday chose the 'job,' to make this new, ever-evolving world one in which he wanted this younger generation to live safely in.

But, sometimes that darkness had a way to infiltrate the hearts of even the idealists in society, and perhaps that scared Fred most of all. When Morse had collapsed in his office that afternoon, it represented to him the very visual of that idea, of goodness and light crumbling before you while helpless to stop it. Jakes alone was witness to how badly the moment had affected him, but he wasn't privy to the _why_. 

Fred may not have known what the next day would bring, but he knew he had to put on a brave face to confront it, regardless, for all of their sakes. And with that fading thought, he drifted off to the rhythm of Win's soft breaths, lulled into sleep.  
________________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, Thursday left the safety of the hat stand and his Win behind with a chaste kiss goodbye, sliding into the passenger seat of the Jag that Jakes piloted, having given his bagman the day off. After they exchanged quick morning pleasantries, neither in the mood to banter through their usual small talk, Thursday asked of his DS, "Morse get home alright?" What he wanted to ask was, _"How was Morse when you left him last night?_ " but that was far too personal a question to discuss.

Jakes simply nodded curtly, and then added, "Sir." If he noticed Thursday's cocked eyebrow, he said nothing. He knew full well that his superior would understand the unspoken conversation conveyed in that one, hesitant word. _I didn't drive him off a bridge, if that's what you mean, but I don't think he was planning on jumping from one, either_.

As Jakes turned the corner to the station, Thursday guided him differently. "We're not going to the station first," Fred guided, "turn here." Jakes did so without question. The answer would come soon enough, as usual. "I want to question Bertrand Williams' friends, find out what he did prior to becoming a shopkeep."

The first few they questioned simply didn't know, it had never been discussed, they recollected. But the fifth person, a hard-weathered, middle-aged woman named Marnie Jacobs, who could have easily been either 38 or 58, knew exactly what 'Bertie' had been. Both Inspector and Sergeant met in a pub she managed, which looked as hard-scrabble as its owner. With a long, indulgent drag on her slim, unfiltered cigarette, already stained with off-red lipstick colour smudges that matched her hair, Ms. Jacobs ( _"It's MIZZ," she had pronounced pointedly while asking Jakes for a light, and Peter thought then and there he might give up smoking for good_ ) had chuckled quietly as she reminisced.

"Bertie the Bookie!" she exclaimed with a graveled voice. "Best bookmaker this side of the Thames! Yeah, I remember Bertie. What is it you wanna know? Other than who killed him, of course, because I ain't got all day." This enquiry was directed with a longing stare at Jakes, before Thursday stepped forward, much to his DS' obvious relief.

"He had that many enemies?" Thursday questioned. He watched as Ms. Jacobs tapped out the ashes of her cigarette right onto the floor. She shrugged.

"Less than some, but more than most, I suppose. Nature of the job, and all. Everyone's your friend until your pony comes up short at the races."

Thursday pressed on. "Anyone you can think of that fit that description better than others?"

Marnie considered this, inhaling nearly half of her remaining cigarette in one go. Jakes' eyes widened considerably. "There is one bloke," she finally recalled, blowing the smoke out to the side. "Bertie was a witness to a robbery he committed, or summat. Never got the full story, but this was years ago, ten, eleven maybe?"

"And this was here?" Jakes asked, "In Oxfordshire?" Marnie shook her head.

"No, up in Lincolnshire. Folks there remember it better'n I do. Bertie was a private man, when he wanted to be. And when he didn't want to be?" She laughed aloud while turning her gaze towards Peter. "Well, it's best the things we did were left _in_ private--"

Before Jakes could choke on his own cigarette inhalations, Thursday hastily concluded the interview. "Thank you, Ms. Jacobs. You've been very helpful."

"Anytime," she smiled, winking in Peter's direction. 

As they hastily retreated back towards the Jag, Jakes muttered aloud, "How about never again?" Thursday laughed aloud at this as the door to the pub swung shut behind them, Thursday's outburst startling them both. Both DI and DS shared a moment's levity before they both remembered the key take-away from their interview: Lincolnshire might be the epicenter of this case, after all.

Which meant it might be connected to his bagman, exactly what Fred had hoped to avoid. 

The next step was to figure out why.


	7. Ham and Tomato Today Keeps the Blues at Bay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking this'll be 12 chapters, in total. The ride gets only gets bumpier after this chapter on, so Ladies and Gents, please pull your safety bar into the locked position, and hold on tight! In this installment, Thursday shows some tough love, Win saves the day, and Morse _finally_ asks for help.

When Thursday laid eyes on Morse the next morning on his front stoop, he thought at first he had been looking at a different person altogether. His bagman's dark blue suit was freshly pressed, crisp lines visible where they ought to have been, white shirt tucked behind a perfectly adjusted tie held in place by a gleaming tack and chain. Morse's posture was upright, not stooped as he was wont to do. His hair had been styled somewhat, as well, but one look at his face proved that this was the same Endeavour Morse he had sent home just two evenings ago, and that the lad was clearly overcompensating. 

His normally wide blue eyes were creased in the corners, half-lidded, as if he had trouble keeping them open. The colour was even off, faded blue-gray sunken deep into reddened hollows, nearly bruised in their appearance from a lack of proper rest. Morse's skin appeared paler than usual, sickly even, and he ducked his gaze from his guv'nor's under the intense scutiny. Thursday glared, but said nothing, opting to bid a quick farewell to Win and block her view of them before she started asking questions.

"In the car, _now_ ," Thursday's harsh whisper commanded.

Morse hurried to the Jag, the soles of Thursday's dress shoes _clacking_ on the pavement in rapid succession after him. Before Morse could even consider eyeing the driver's side door, he demanded the keys.

"Don't even _think_ about it," Thursday spat out, palm presented upturned. "I'll not have you driving us into a ditch, Morse."

His bagman swallowed heavily, barely alighting the keys on his superior's hand before they were snatched away. He opened the passenger door, and slid into the seat a three solid beats after Thursday. "Sir--"

"No." Fred declared, and made no move to start the vehicle as he turned towards his bagman. His DC's face was tipped down, and avoided Thursday's gaze at all cost. " _Look at me_."

Morse's bloodshot eyes hesitantly glanced up, and steeled himself for whatever wrath Thursday thought he deserved. His guv'nor eyed him for an uncomfortable length of time, but Endeavour held his own.

"You lied to me, Morse. Lied to my _face_ \--"

His bagman started violently, and his eyes flashed in a semblance of his usual self. "I've done _no such thing_ \--!"

"You _promised_ me you were okay--"

"I _never_ said that, because I _knew_ I'd be lying to you, if I did!" he retorted heatedly. "I said I wouldn't _drink myself to death_ , and I _didn't_ \--"

"You should have _told me_ you weren't alright --"

" _I THOUGHT I WOULD BE!_ " Endeavour all but screamed. Both voices had gone silent at this admission, and then Morse realized what he had actually done was raise his voice to a superior officer, and now Jakes would be his bagman, and Morse would have failed to prove himself yet again, so he flung open the door to the Jag and made a hasty retreat--

\--that lasted all of two steps, the petite figure of Win Thursday blocking his path. She eyed him curiously, holding out two pocket-sized parcels wrapped in wax paper. "You boys were in such a rush, Fred forgot his ham and tomato!"

Morse stared dumbfounded at Win, an apron-clad domestic angel sent here to Earth, who then carefully placed the sandwiches into his jacket's front two pockets, as she often did for her husband. Stepping back, she smiled sadly at him, and reached up to brush the stray tear from his cheek he hadn't known had fallen. "It's alright, dear," she said softly, and grabbed his cold hands in hers so that she could run a warm thumb over his knuckles with a comforting squeeze, "I made you one, too."

He felt an odd laugh bubble up from within, and he then gave her one of the most genuine smiles he'd been able to muster in days. "Thank you, Mrs. Thursday," he replied quietly. " _Truly_."

She grasped his hands a moment longer, then released them gently as she turned to wave goodbye to her husband through the Jag's windshield. Endeavour returned to his seat then, careful of the parcels in his pocket as he shut the door. Silence hung heavy in the air for a few moments, before--

"--I'm sorry" was spoken by both parties simultaneously. Each man looked at the other, then shared a quiet laugh between them as their anger faded. 

"I should never have raised my voice," Morse clarified.

"I shouldn't have pushed you," Thursday counteracted. "Lad...you have people that care about you, is what I really wanted to say. Your lack of self-preservation is shocking, at best, and I don't want to see you burn out before you've reached your prime. I...I wish you would see that, sometimes, that you don't have to be alone. Not anymore."

Morse considered this, thinking of the spare sandwich in his pocket. His lips quirked up in a smile with a slight nod. "I know that now," he responded shyly, a bold thought entering into his head. 

"Sir...have you any plans for March 10th?"

* * * 

The County Police had determined that the disturbed grave of Constance Morse would produce no further evidence as related to their investigation. Morse then learned from the churchyard cemetery that for a relatively small sum, they would reinstate the deceased to her final resting place below ground, currently scheduled for one week later.

March 10th.

As Morse explained this, he felt confident he had made the right decision in having asked Thursday to attend, if for nothing more than moral support, regardless of his choice to attend, or not. He had naturally assumed Thursday would politely decline when he first considered the idea of asking him, but really, what more had he to lose at this juncture?

The request had shocked Fred initially, but in a good way, proud of his bagman for having finally reached out. With a genuine and gracious smile, he replied, "I'd be honored, lad." Morse looked up at him in gratitude, and his face beamed with acceptance and relief. _Pleased as punch_ , Thursday thought.

Morse punctuated the conversation with a shy smile. "Thank you, sir."

With this, Fred steered the Jag into the Cowley car park, ready to tackle their current murder case with a renewed ferocity. He sensed his passenger felt the same way, too.

Heaven help the bastard who had done this.

* * *

PC Jim Strange had been the sole person the previous day to finish hauling the remaining quarter of the evidence boxes to the sub-basement room, not that he had minded. Once he had finished, Thursday had given him leave for the remainder of the afternoon. A fair trade, indeed. As he understood it, something left unspoken had been revealed during their investigation, and Morse had not come in yesterday at all, both Jakes and Thursday reluctant to broach the subject of their missing DC. Strange was quite relieved, then, upon having seen Morse trailing behind Thursday towards the latter's office that morning, Jakes bringing up the rear.

He nodded in greeting to them as they passed his work desk, though there was something indeterminate about Morse's expression and contrasted body language that made his friend difficult to read. He had smiled at Jim briefly nonetheless, and Strange was given the impression that whatever had happened, that maybe it wasn't as dire as whispers had led him to believe. He focused once more on his report transcription, as the trio entered into Thursday's office, shutting the door.

Surely no more than rumours, he concluded.

* * *

" _Lincolnshire?_ " Morse declared incredulously, his brow furrowed deeply. "But... _why?_ "

That was certainly the question of the hour, the day, _and_ the week, Thursday thought, after discussing the results of his and Jakes' enquiries with his junior detective. There had been no discernible motive, save for a slim possibility that Mr. Williams' murder had been fueled by revenge, a slow-burning one, at that. The crime witnessed by Bertie, as hinted at by Ms. ( _"It's Mizz..."_ ) Jacobs, had only been a theft of an acquaintance's shop in Lincolnshire, over a decade ago. No one they had spoken to knew of anybody that harboured ill will towards the former bookmaker, but that's not to say that the possibility didn't exist.

Thursday remembered from past snippets of conversation with his DC, in rare mentions of the young man's father, that the elder Morse had a bit of a gambling problem at one time. That 'time' seemed to encompass the entirety of his son's childhood. Fred didn't want to pry further into Morse's private life, but felt he needed to make that decision.

"Your father," he began, and witnessed Morse grow rigid instantly, "he... _frequented_ the bookmaker circuit, did he not?" He watched Morse swallow thickly, risking a quick glance at Jakes ashamedly before he responded. _Did he assume his colleague would think less of him for it?_ Thursday questioned internally.

"That's, um, a polite way of saying he had an incurable gambling problem. Sir," he responded, nervously running a thumb over an eyebrow. "Yes...yes, he did. But, I don't see what that has to do with Mr. Williams' murder--"

" _Morse_ ," Thursday interrupted in exasperation, "Have you at _least_ considered that this may be connected to your--"

"No," Endeavour responded very firmly, "I haven't. Because it doesn't, it _can't_ \--"

Knuckles rapped loudly thrice on Thursday's door, and he swore.

"Yes, what?" he called a bit harsher than intended.

A young PC poked his head in hesitantly, a slim manilla envelope in hand. "Erm, the information you requested from County is here. Sirs," noticing that all eyes were on him.

Thursday stood, motioning with his hand towards the timid PC. "Yes, well, hand it over, then."

Upon realizing how badly he had startled the young constable so, Thursday sighed and apologized, taking hold of the envelope. "Thank you, PC Wright," he acknowledged with a forced smile, holding the near-grimace until the young man exited hurriedly.

Jakes nodded at the envelope. "That was quick," he remarked, impressed, considering they had only submitted a query late the previous afternoon. "Anything? " Peter then questioned after Thursday had glanced at the single paper inside.

Thursday withdrew the paper, and immediately placed it in front of Morse. "Recognize him?"

Morse's eyebrows drew together in question, still quizzical about why the DI had suddenly decided to place the focus on him. "Maybe Jakes knows him," he responded tartly, full well knowing what Thursday was trying to prove.

His superior glared at him in turn. "I'm asking you."

Endeavour sighed in resignation, and looked down at the rap sheet and mugshot. He didn't recognize him, at least, he didn't _think_ he did...

Orville Michael Cuthbert, aged 55, eyes in the monochromatic photo like tarnished steel. They were uncomfortable to look at, if he was being honest. Arrested a decade years prior for an attempted robbery of a bookmaker's shop, nearly absconding with £2000. That is, until Bertrand Williams caught him in the act during a social visit to his friend Gregory Simpson, who in turn demanded that full charges be pressed against the failed thief.

"If this was only an attempted theft, then why ten years? That's double the usual sentence," Peter asked.

Thursday took the paper in hand. "He was sentenced to five, but was in a violent altercation with a fellow inmate four and a half years into his sentence, one that left the inmate partially paralyzed," he read, eyebrows high. "They extended him another five and a half after that."

Morse shook his head in disbelief. "Why risk everything when he was so close to getting out? What could have set him off?"

Fred continued reading. "This lists a wife and daughter, both 'Deceased,'" he began, eyes widening as he looked up, "killed in a car accident around that very time."

Jakes lit his second cigarette of the morning. "So, he completely loses it, nearly beats another inmate to death, has a longer stay, and then what? When's his parole date?"

Thursday froze, eyes dark as he looked up at his detectives. "He was released on February 26th. Five days ago. And," he concluded, handing the paper to Jakes, "we have an address."

They all exchanged glances that suggested they believed this is be their prime murder suspect, this Orville Cuthbert.

But, Morse didn't recognize the name, or the face, but...but there had been something, about his eyes--

Two loud knocks upon Thursday's door startled Morse from his reverie.

"Enter!"

There was no timid PC this time around as Jim Strange flung the door open immediately. "Sir, a call just came in. There's been another murder."

Fred Thursday looked grimly at his PC for a moment, and then nodded curtly. "Sergeant Jakes, you take Strange and visit Cuthbert's last known address as given, but take caution and your service pieces."

He then turned to his detective constable. "Morse, you're with me."

One way or another, they were _going_ to find some answers.


	8. Nobody Likes Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Especially Jakes. Jakes HATES surprises, particularly the one revealed to him in this installment...
> 
> (A/N I've taken liberties with addresses here.)
> 
> Also, Happy Cinco de Quatro to any Arrested Development fans out there!

The drive out to the countryside had been a pleasant one, Morse thought, if only the context would have been different. Both he and Thursday rode in companionable silence to Oxfordshire's latest murder, each formulating their own theories to be proven or disproven by the evidence soon to be collected that day. Aside from the stolen belongings of Constance Morse, there had been zero clues in the last round of items recovered from the crime scene: no footprints, fingerprints, nor hairs. There had been left a clear impression of knee prints in the blood surrounding Bertie Williams, but they produced nothing identifiable. 

Either the killer had cleaned any residue of his fingerprints while on site, or knew not to leave it there prior to entering. Morse was comforted by neither.

Dr. DeBryn's Morris and another squad car sat parked parallel to the kerb before a modest home made of brick, only one story in height. It looked decent enough from the outside, and as Thursday, then Morse, entered, it was clear that's where the scene changed dramatically. Inside was another tale, one of struggle, a story cut short.

The PC closest to the pair of detectives reported what had initially led to the discovery of the body: an anonymous call. There had been no one in the area upon arrival, and the nearest neighbor lived tucked behind hedgerows nearly 200 meters away. Any chance of finding witnesses looked exceedingly slim.

As Thursday spoke to the PC, Morse surveyed the tableau before him. What had clearly begun as a typical meal with for one with means devolved into madness: a half-eaten breakfast feast left to rot indefinitely on fine china; both an overturned Queen Anne chair and an antique lamp, it's blue silk shade having had rolled some distance away; and a decorated porcelain cup half-filled with tea, now thoroughly chilled. At center was Coroner Max DeBryn, crouching aside the victim in a way to avoid the blood. 

_So much blood._

Endeavour turned his head abruptly, having stared overlong at the ring of it which encircled the man's head, a halo of the damned. He hadn't really looked, but something hadn't been right...

DeBryn looked up through thick, rounded spectacles, only then really noticing them for the first time. "Thursday," he nodded in greeting. Then, "Morse..." This had been spoken in surprise, with a subtle hint of sadness. 

So, he knew then. Morse cleared his throat. "Doctor."

Thursday went to crouch down carefully next to the coroner. Morse did not.

"What in God's name happened here, then?" Thursday declared in disgust, and then Morse _looked_. 

His eyes hadn't deceived him during that first glance, then. The back of the man's skull really had been caved in.

Morse swallowed heavily, and turned away, opting to roam the small dining room for clues as DI and Coroner spoke. "A bludgeoning to the head, it would seem," Max responded to Thursday, "with an instrument heretofore unseen." Taking in the details of the furnishings, Morse moved seamlessly to the next room, which appeared far less dramatic and opulent than the previous. It was a study, plainly decorated with but a single chestnut roll-top desk open in the corner of the small room. Papers littered the surface, stacks of envelopes both open and sealed, and also a pile of ledgers, with names, amounts, and the names of horses delineated in concise script on the lined paper. _Another bookmaker, then...?_

Endeavour frowned, liking this less and less than he even other murder scenes, pinching his brow as he lifted up one of the envelopes to look for a name.

They had all been addressed to one Gregory Simpson. Orville Cuthbert's intended robbery mark nearly a decade prior.

But now, most likely, his latest murder victim.

* * *

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

PC Jim Strange thumped on the door before them thrice, declaring, "Cowley PD!"

Both he and Detective Sergeant Jakes stood alert outside in the hallway of a sparsely populated tenement flat, service pieces at the ready if deemed necessary. Their primary murder suspect had listed the address above as his current one, and they took no chances with their own safety. Moments later, a slight shuffle could be heard approaching the door from inside, and both colleagues looked at one other in agreement that the situation could go sideways at any moment. The clicks and creaks of the latches and locks within being opened set them at the ready, door finally opening. 

It revealed an aged man, around 70 years, who came up to Jakes' chest in height.

 _What in the bloody hell...?_ "Are you Orville Michael Cuthbert?" Jakes enquired, now completely certain they had been given the wrong address, and that this had been a complete waste of valuable time.

"Yes."

Or, not.

Peter glanced at Strange, the taller man unable to keep the utter surprise from showing on his face. "Cowley Police Department, we've some questions for you," Jakes continued, so thrown for a loop that he nearly forgot to show his badge. "Do you know a Bertrand Williams?"

The little man stared at him, unblinking.

"No."

"What about a George Simpson?"

Orville blinked once. "No."

Peter sighed heavily. "Can you account for your whereabouts two nights ago?"

"Yes," the other man replied, pushing glasses up into the bridge of his nose.

Jakes took out his notepad, this interview not following how he had imagined it in the least bit. "Who can vouch for you?" he asked, pen at the ready.

"Miss Jemma Batten, she calls the numbers at Bingo Night, at the Fire Hall," he responded, eyes alight and a crooked smile on his face.

Jakes finished writing this information down. "And she can confirm you were there?"

"Oh, yes! She knows me. I...I think she likes me."

Strange cocked an eyebrow at Jakes, who concluded their visit with, "If we have any more questions, we'll be back."

The man blinked once. "Okay."

As they exited the building, Peter doubted with every step in the opposite direction that the other man had in any way been Orville Cuthbert. But, the way this case had been going, honestly nothing surprised him. 

Not anymore.

* * *

Ms. Jemma Batten, Peter thought, looked exactly like he had imagined she would. Definitely not one to chase after Orville Cuthbert, that was for certain.

Mid-20s, blonde hair permed high atop her head, held together with a floral scarf and enough hairspray to murder a moose, matching dress barely brushing against the length of her brightly polished fingertips. He walked up to her with his usual swagger, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Hello, Miss Batten? Cowley PD. How are you today?"

Jakes turned in utter shock upon hearing Jim Strange speaking aloud.

Jemma turned, coy smile alighting her painted features as she saw them. "Policemen?" she questioned with raised eyebrows. "Oh, I hope I haven't done anything wrong! I'd hate to have to be handcuffed and locked up!" This was spoken directly to Strange, whose blush rivaled the hue of Morse's hair.

"Um, Ms. Batten, we have a few questions about an Orville Michael Cuthbert. Do you know him?" Jakes intervened.

She visibly pouted. "I know _of_ him. I'm not overly fond of his presence. Weirds me out a bit, if I can be honest."

Jakes narrowed his eyes at her questioningly. "How so?"

She rolled her eyes upward in thought. "Hmm, I can't really say, it's just more of a feeling, I suppose. He...has a tendency to just stand behind me, lording over me, like he owns me. He's quite tall, you know."

Jim and Peter turned to one another immediately. "Tall?" Strange asked, motioning a palm flat to the ground, hovering above just waist level. "As in _this_ tall, Miss?"

Jemma giggled at Strange. "No, silly! That's Sam. Samuel Aaronson, his roommate." She smiled wistfully, eyes sparkling. "If only he were 40 years younger..."

Peter Jakes had quite enough shocking revelations at that moment to last him a lifetime.

* * *

"You lied to us," Jakes declared without pretense, "plain and simple." 

Peter slammed his hands down on the metal table as 'Orville' fidgeted in his chair, jumping in fright.

"So, tell us, who are you _really_? Because we'll know when you're lying."

'Orville' sighed. "Samuel. Aaronson. And that's the truth this time! Cuthbert slipped me a couple hundred quid and told me if anybody came 'round lookin' for him, that I was him. What was I gonna do, say no?"

Jakes sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead roughly.

"Yes!" Jakes all but yelled, "you could have said no! We could book you right now for impersonation and obstruction of a police investigation, unless you tell us where he is!" He punctuated this by slamming down on the metal table with his fist once more. Strange, to his credit, did not flinch.

Aaronson jumped again, and considered his options. "Alright," he conceeded, "I'll tell you what I know, which ain't much, since I only known the man for a week! Met him at the pub. He has a car, a '65 Anglia, no promises that he ain't stole it, with plates that end in...224, I think, I remembered because two plus two is four, and--"

"What else?" Peter demanded, nearly at his wit's end.

Samuel considered their sole week of conversation. "He was talkin' some business about gettin' a debt paid to him, he did, was pretty on about it. Then he saw you lot recovered those gold bars, and was real excited about that! Is this important?"

"Yes," Strange spoke before Peter could actually throttle him, "it is."

Jakes needed Thursday here more than ever, there were too many pieces, too many parts. He sighed heavily. "Strange? Sit on him a minute, will you? I'm going to relay that plate to dispatch."

Jim nodded, and Mr. Aaronson huffed dramatically. "Am I going to be here all night? I've goldfish to feed!"

Jakes was out the door before their witness could come to any harm by his hands.

* * *

Thursday and Morse spent the entire rest of the day combing over Simpson's house with only the most critical of eyes, hoping for some other piece of their convoluted puzzle to fall into place. Endeavour had located a plethora of paperwork in a filing cabinet, neatly filed, thank goodness, and Fred had very thoroughly investigated what he believed to be the faint impressions of bloody footprints, but it proved to be red dirt used in the garden.

Their abbreviated lunch had taken place in the Jag, neither wanting to leave until _something_ of note had been found. But, luck was certainly not to be in their favor. After scouring the home and grounds for hours more, and questioning anyone within a 500 meter radius, both DI and DC admitted defeat.

"How about I drop you at your place, and we start fresh in the morning?" Fred opined, correctly guessing that neither of them wanted to return to the station.

"I won't say no, sir, " Morse answered wearily. 

As they approached the vehicle, an 'All Points Bulletin' was being blasted through the interconnected radio system present in each of the police cars. " _All available units, be on the lookout for plates OXE 224, Blue Ford Anglia, Model 1965. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous. I repeat, all available units--_ " 

By the time they got into the Jag, neither Morse nor Thursday had heard the broadcast.

* * *

After Jakes had sent out the APB on Cuthbert's car and plate info, he took himself a well-earned smoke break. He had intended on a longer one, had he not just burned through his last fag. " _Bollocks_ ," he cursed.

As Jakes ran fingers through dark hair in exasperation, he wandered over to his desk, intent on grabbing the emergency pack of smokes within. Today, he felt, had more than warranted it. As he reached the metal drawer, he looked up to see the ever-wary PC Wright in approach, another sealed manilla envelope under his arm. The PC tiredly held it out for him to take, this having been his last assigned task of the day. "Dr. DeBryn asked me to give this to you before I left, sir. It's Gregory Simpson's personal effects," he announced, Jakes looking at him quizzically. 

"Who?" he asked as he half-listened, and struck the match with a mighty need.

"The latest murder victim, sir. He said to tell you this was found inside his...mouth."

Jakes looked up at him in surprise, having been unaware of the deceased's identity. He absentmindedly nodded his thanks, effectively dismissing the young PC, wondering if he had in fact heard him correctly. 

His _mouth_...? Inside the envelope was a large plastic evidence bag and encased within was an even smaller one, which contained two sets of creased paper. Carefully removing the papers from the saliva-coated plastic with a grimace, Jakes unfolded them. 

They were a pair of betting slips. Another bookie? Peter thought, and suddenly that morning's conversation came back in a startlingly bright light. George Simpson. The victim of the intended robbery that had set off the entire chain of events thus far. Perusing the papers, he noted they were both for off-track betting, the names of the horses appearing next to an amount, signed by both the agent and the client.

The agent had been Orville Cuthbert.

The client, Cyril Morse.

Peter gasped audibly, and he nearly dropped the slips altogether. An icy shiver of recognition creeped along his spine, and he looked up to stare blankly at a wall, thoughts suddenly frantic, his heart pumping in fear for his colleague. _When did that happen?_ he wondered as he snatched up the phone at his desk, numbers dialed in a panic. 

"Dr. DeBryn! I'm glad I caught you. Is Thursday or Morse over with you?" No, he replied, Thursday had given Morse a ride home before retiring for the night himself. Peter thanked him abruptly, with absolutely no time for further explanations.

He then dialed both Thursday and Morse's home phones. Neither answered, only dial tones present.

Cursing loudly, he ran back into the interrogation room, the door slamming open, startling PC Strange.

Samuel Aaronson spoke before Jakes could. "Am I free to go now? I really must feed my goldfish--"

"Does the name Morse mean anything to you? Cyril Morse?" Jakes asked in a breathless rush.

"Hmmmmm....no, " Samuel responded, shaking his head, "not Cyril."

Both Jakes and Strange tensed, sharing a look between one another.

"What do you mean, not _Cyril?_ " Jakes demanded through clenched teeth.

Mr. Aaronson considered this. "He talked about an...Endure? Entreaty?"

"Endeavour?"

"Yes!" Samuel crowed, "That was it! Mentioned him a few times, along with the word _bastard_ and _son of a bitch_. I thought not to bring him up after that, I'm not a fan of such language, if you can believe that. Look, if we're done here, my goldfish --"

Jakes nearly lost it then and there. "Yes, yes, please, for the love of _Christ_ , go attend to your _bloody_ fish!" he shouted through the open door. He then heard footsteps behind him approaching rapidly. It was the desk sergeant. 

"Detective Sergeant Jakes, if I may, there's been a hit on the APB you put out."

Jakes looked shocked. "Already?" The desk sergeant nodded. "Yes, sir, it was reported a moment ago on Sixth Avenue between Broadway and Spring."

Both Jim and Peter looked at one another in horror.

"That's...that's Morse's address," Jim stuttered, terror for his friend increasing tenfold.

Jakes levelled a finger at Strange, and the PC didn't like seeing the normally stoic senior officer look quite as frazzled as he did. "You're with me."

Jim nodded in agreement, and the pair said nothing more as they sprinted from the evidence room, door slamming on their witness.

Mr. Aaronson sat a moment longer, blinking owlishly at the door when it did not open again.

"I guess I'll just show myself out, then?"


	9. A Velvet Shrouded Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this installment, all warnings and tags apply.

The proffered ride from Thursday had been much appreciated after their too long afternoon. Another body, another bookie, with only Lincolnshire and a name to tie the two together: Orville Michael Cuthbert.

It meant _nothing_ to Morse. Was this the man responsible for disturbing his mother's final repose, for purloining a long-buried momento from her _corpse_? And if so, what madness was the reason for it all? He sighed heavily as he walked towards his flat, lost in dark thoughts.

Suddenly, a loud cry followed by a scraping _thump_ shook him from his reverie. He turned quickly to see the bundled form of a man downed on the sidewalk, a low moan of pain as he tried to manoeuvre himself upright. Morse snapped to attention, running to the man's aid.

"Are you alright?" Morse queried as he grew closer, kneeling before the man as he sat up. One look at his painfully bloodied and scraped hands told Morse he was not. Bits of gravel might have even been embedded in his palms, he had fallen so spectacularly.

"I-I guess I tripped and fell... _again_ ," the other man sighed dramatically. "Don't worry about me, lad," he looked up with a kind smile, "it happens all the time at my age, with these rusty joints. Being a grandfather isn't always about spoiling your grandchildren!"

Two thoughts crossed Endeavour's mind: first, that he had no idea what that was like, not having really known his own grandparents, and second, that if he ever became a grandfather, that he would like to have aged as well as this man had. 

"Sir...I live just right here. Would you like to come in, and at least rinse your hands? I could give you some clean cloths for now, at least, until you get home. And some bandages. That looks painful," he concluded with a sympathetic wince, eyeing the bleeding and abraded skin.

The older man looked up at him from under his hat brim with no small amount of graciousness, eyes wide and twinkling. "You'd do that for me? That'd be very kind of you, lad, if it's no trouble. Name's Gentries, or Mr. Gentries, if you're the proper type."

Endeavour smiled genuinely. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gentries. My name's Morse, and no, it's no trouble at all." He proceeded to assist the stooped and arthritic man with standing up, guiding him towards his bedsit. "I'm sorry about the state it's in," he cautioned as he turned the key in the door lock. "Things have been a bit...hectic lately."

Mr. Gentries hummed non-commitally in response, careful not to touch much with his scraped palms. He glanced around the flat, as Morse shucked his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He watched as Morse withdrew a washcloth from the linens closet, before his eyes alighted on a single object across the room.

"Look, lad, I know this'll seem an odd request, but I see you've a record player. Might it be too much trouble for a song? Would calm my nerves, I think. Haven't heard one in years!"

Morse looked up from where he was wetting the washcloth in surprise. "Oh!" he exclaimed as he turned off the faucet. "Not at all, though all I have is opera, I'm afraid." 

Mr. Gentries smiled in response. "Even better." Morse handed him the soaked cloth, which was accepted gratefully. He then wiped his damp hands across his pant legs, before he turned to prepare a record for his turntable with the utmost care.

He chose a sweeping aria, something that would enliven both of their spirits. Then, Mr. Gentries said the most curious thing.

"You certainly have your mother's eyes."

Endeavour froze, solid as a statue, and suddenly as chilled as marble. He dared glance up at where Mr. Gentries stood, hunched in front of the fireplace, cleaning the dirt out of his palms as he studied something upon the mantle. Mr. Gentries looked over at him, as he stood stock-still, record in hand. "That'll do, lad," he nodded at Morse's selection. "I trust you."

The problem was, Morse no longer trusted _him_ , and his breathing grew shallow in panic as he now wondered whom he had just let into his home. He had realized what Mr. Gentries had remarked upon just then, a photograph of Morse and his mother from many years back. They not only shared the same hair coloring, but had matching inquisitive blue eyes, as well, traits any passerby would have known having looked at them closely.

The photograph, however, had been taken from a distance, developed in monochromatic black and white.

Morse quickly placed the needle on the record, but he knew the other man had already sensed his obvious hesitation. He suddenly felt as vulnerable as that child in the photo again, and he was _scared_.

He cleared his throat, and addressed Mr. Gentries with a tight smile. "Em, I'm _so_ sorry, but I've realized just now I haven't any rubbing alcohol or bandages for you, but, I can call my neighbor and have her pick up some on the way home, if I can catch her enroute."

Mr. Gentries still scrubbed idly at his bloodied hand with the cloth. "There's really no need, lad--"

"Nonsense," Morse interrupted, "I'll ring her now! She's a nurse." But, as he picked up the telephone receiver and dialed, he had no intentions to call Monica. He swallowed with difficulty, as he waited for the phone to be picked up on the receiving end. After only three rings, it blessedly was. "Joanie!" he crowed with forced exuberance. "It's Endeavour. Listen, luv, I was hoping I'd catch you before you left for the day. I've a gentleman here at my place, who I've been trying to patch up. He took a nasty fall on the sidewalk out front, but I haven't got any supplies. I--"

Despite the insistent questioning coming through the receiver, tinny and strained, Morse halted as the sweeping crescendo of the aria he had chosen suddenly blared at full volume. He struggled to comprehend the abrupt loudness. He then heard another voice directly over his shoulder, but it was different than it should have been, deeper, _colder.._.

" _Hang up._ "

Gripping the receiver in his right hand, Morse swiveled his head over his left shoulder, startled by the sudden nearness of the speaker.

A closed fist struck him sharply across his left temple with such violence, that he hadn't known he had fallen until his knees struck the floor. Morse cried out in shock as he landed, receiver having flown from his grip and left to swing wildly in an arc on its cord. The second blow came as much a surprise as the first, as it drove into the fragile bridge of his nose, and he screamed as he felt bones _shatter_. Morse fell onto his side with a pained gasp, curled with chin tucked into chest, trembling arms held over his bloodied face as a measure of protection.

It would be in vain.

The young detective constable shouted in pain as bloodied fingers dug into his scalp to collect a fistful of hair, threatening to rip out the russet locks as he was forcefully wrenched upwards onto his knees, neck strained backwards. Morse then felt the fabric of his necktie being looped twice around another hand, the clenched fist then pulled taut behind him as to make a makeshift noose, held from on high. The grip on his hair suddenly loosened, and Endeavour found himself being choked to death.

A strangled, open-mouthed gasp was forced from his lungs as he clawed frantically at the silk cutting into his flesh, blue eyes impossibly wide in all-consuming fear. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he vaguely heard his attacker curse from above him, "I'm not going to kill you. Not yet." 

Morse continued to struggle, until a bloody, open-palmed _SLAP_ snapped his head to the side, broken bones jostled with a mournful whimper. The violent stranger then loosened his hold on the fabric enough that he could take a great, sucking breath of air, but only just so. Morse blinked away the tears of panic that had blurred his vision, and was then able to really _see_ him. 

The other man wasn't at all what he had appeared to be. The 'Mr. Gentries' he had invited into his home had been a grandfather, hunched and aging, eyes kindly and warm. This man, this imposter, was muscled, dangerous, and taller than he, with a hardened gaze that bore deep into Endeavour's very soul.

A sword shrouded in velvet.

His assailant suddenly snatched Morse's jaw in an ironclad grip. "What I'm about to say, I'm only sayin' once." He forced Morse's head back so that he could meet terror-stricken blue eyes with his own steely gaze. "I ain't who I said I was, but you sure as hell are that _rat bastard_ Cyril Morse's son, may he _rot with the Devil_ for eternity." 'Mr. Gentries' continued, "You're going to help me collect the debt he owes me, _boy_. That, I'll explain in the car." 

The grip on both his jaw and necktie were released, and the action sent Endeavour into an immediate gasping fit, his lungs desperate for air as he collapsed forward. His brain ran rampant with an encyclopedia of questions he needed answered, unable to keep up with this sudden turn of events.

"Why should I? Help you?" he ground out as he rubbed at his throat gingerly, pointedly glaring at his captor. There was something dark, turbulent, and deeply disturbed within the depths of the other's eyes that frightened him, because Morse had seen them before...

He stiffened when he heard the man chuckle gleefully.

"If you don't help me," he began, voice having dropped to a low, threatening tone, "I'll _bury you_ with your mother." 

Morse's heart nearly stopped at the admission, but whatever hope remained he poured into his next question.

"And, if I do? You'll...let me go?" he asked almost too softly to be heard.

"Let you go? No, I'll grant you the kindness of making certain you're _dead_ before I reunite you with your dearly departed mum. Your choice." 

Morse snapped his eyes shut at this visualization, heart careening into the pit of his stomach. Then, suddenly, the full realization of what had occurred finished processing in his overtaxed brain. 

" _You_ did this," he spat accusingly, eyes flashing angrily as rough hands jerked him up by his shirt collar in order to stand. "You did _all of this! Why?!_ Why kill those men, why--?" he swallowed thickly, unable to say _desecrate my mother's grave_ aloud. He was given a hard shove backwards by abraded hands possessed by a lunatic, one who expected the younger man to willingly get into a vehicle with him. 

"I said I'd _explain in the car!_ " the man shouted angrily, competing over the sudden sweeping arc of the aria still playing in the room. "Besides, what difference does it make to you? What's done is done. Now move." 

But, Endeavour didn't move, save for a small stumble backwards as he suddenly made the connection, his mouth agape with the shock of it all.

 _"What's done is done, lad, ashes to ashes, and all that. Let's wrap this up, eh? Your Da' and I've somewhere to be."_

Morse stared aghast at the man before him, a man that had called his father a friendly acquaintance, at best, until one day, he didn't.

Stared at the man who had been present at his mother's funeral so that Cyril could pretend that there was at least _one_ person in this world who he hadn't pissed off, until he eventually did. 

Stared at the man with _eyes of tarnished steel._..

The man whose lips were curling in a distressing attempt at a smile as he loomed over Endeavour at his full height, an ugly laugh bubbling from his lips, who among friends was more commonly called--

" _Ollie?_ " Morse breathed.

Ollie didn't smile so much as bared his teeth at the younger Morse's recollection of his nickname. 

Orville Michael Cuthbert wasn't exactly a name that rolled so easily off the tongues of the bookmaker's clients, after all.

"Figured it out, didja? That newspaper said you were clever."

Morse's gaze drifted away, to the floor, his mind incapable of comprehending the events of the past few days. He would soon pay for his father's past transgressions one final time, with his life...

His gaze still levelled on the ground, he watched as the still-dangling receiver of the phone made lazy passes through the air on it's spiraled cord, so transfixed that Ollie glanced to see what he was staring at. Sparing a look at his father's bookie, whose eyes grew darker still when they met his own, Endeavour drew the deepest breath he was capable of at that moment, as the orchestral piece blared at its loudest volume yet as it spun into a crescendo, as he, in a sheer panic, struggled and fought with clenched fists against the fierce grip of the man who grabbed him suddenly and _it was never supposed to end this way and he shouldn't have let him in and then he screamed towards the receiver as if his life depended on it and it did, screamed the name of the man who had been more of a father and a mentor to him than that rat bastard Cyril Morse ever was and he wasn't ready for death, and then--_

 _"FREEEEEEEEEED!"_

And then the receiver was snatched up with a growl and forcefully slammed into the base of his skull, and at least this way, Morse's last fleeting thought rationalized, he wouldn't willingly be getting into the car with a lunatic.

* * *

Fred Thursday had just positioned himself on the sofa, having a hot cuppa while Win finished cooking up what was certain to be another standout in her repertoire, when the phone rang. With a sigh, he placed the porcelain cup and its steaming contents on the table as he stood, answering the phone with, "Thursday residence."

 _"Joanie!"_ he heard his bagman's voice say inexplicably, " _It's Endeavour. Listen, luv..._ " Thursday physically looked at the phone receiver and inspected it, as if the telephone itself was the problem. 

"Morse? What in heaven's name are you on about, lad? Joan isn't he--"

On the opposing end of the line he heard the sudden sweep of an operatic pitch turned to full volume in the background, followed by a harsh cry and a rattling thump. He could then discern the strike of fists against flesh and bone, as well as the high-pitched scream from his bagman that followed. His spine turned to ice as he was rendered immobile in fear, another yelp of pain filtering through the receiver.

" _Morse?_ Morse, what's going on, _answer me?!_ " 

Indescernible dialogue was being spoken, punctuated by harsh gasps and choking coughs. Thursday strained to hear the lengthy conversation, but his efforts were in vain. He looked up to find Win hovering near the kitchen doorway, the confusion and alarm on her face certainly mirroring his own. Then, just as he thought all had gone silent, he was proven horribly wrong. 

It had been the piercing shriek of absolute, hopeless terror that resembled his name which shattered Fred's soul into countless shards, but subsequently spurred him into action. After the line went dead, Thursday hung the receiver into the cradle, and turned to address his wife.

"I have to go," he announced quietly, rattled to his very core. 

Win stood on her toes, placing slim hands on his cheeks as she kissed him.

"I know."

Fred Thursday drove faster than he ever had in his lifetime.

* * *

DI Thursday truly feared the absolute worst scenario imaginable as he careened around a corner tightly. Driving the Jag home had been a godsend, and he dare not think what he would have done without it parked by his house, as it were.

As he arrived in front of Morse's flat, for the second time that day, he was then startled to see that DS Jakes and PC Strange had only just parked their own vehicle. As they exited in a panic simultaneously, both Fred and Peter shared a look of unspoken fear, drawn here for the same reason, though unbeknownst to one another. The trio rushed in a single line down the steps to Morse's door, already swung open on its hinges. Fred called to him, but no one was there to respond.

The tip of a flat was devoid of all life, and deathly quiet, save for the low, rhythmic thrum of a needle skipping grooves at the end of a record.

Endeavour Morse was gone.


	10. Ollie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse learns the intentions of Orville Michael Cuthbert (OMC, _GET IT?_ )
> 
> (A/N Trying to post these sooner than later since I'm _supposed_ to be writing my summer programs. ADULTING SUCKS.)

When Morse awakens, it is his single worst experience with returning to consciousness in recent memory. 

He has been laid out on his left side, arm beneath him completely numb. His right one, too, but not from having it pinned beneath him. Both hands have been secured, overly so, by thick, rugged cable ties fashioned behind his back, and he can scarcely rotate his wrists in any direction, thoroughly immobilized. It is both inconvenient and quite painful. He is curled on a cushioned, leather seat, the back bench of a car, he imagines as it rumbled along, his crooked knees dangling off the edge. At least his feet are unsecured.

But, it's his head, throbbing, bloodied, and most assuredly concussed, that truly gave him pause before Morse even considered opening his eyes. A quiet, shuddering breath is inhaled through his mouth, his damaged nasal passages pulsating in time to his rabbit-quick heartbeat. An indescribable terror coursed through his veins, circulating within as he began to piece together his last conscious actions. Endeavour recalled grappling with his muscled assailant as he screamed for help, viciously attacked in his own home, hoping against hope that the telephone line had still been connected to that of Fred Thursday. Then, memories of a blunt object that struck him full-force against the base of his skull with a resounding crack, and then nothing as his body slumped to the floor senseless for the second time in as many days. And now, confusion as he awoke bound and beaten in the back seat of a car. 

A 1965 Ford Anglia, to be exact, though Morse was not cognizant of this at the moment. Testing one eye, he opened it slowly, and regretted his decision instantaneously. He whimpered sharply at the stabbing agony that assaulted his skull, and he then imagined what an ice-pick lobotomy must have felt like. 

A huff of laughter sounded from the front seat. "Finally awake then, are we? It's about bloody time."

Through repeated attempts, Morse was able to crack his right eye open, at least partially. He was able to discern that the sun had set long ago, but naught else. "Where are we?" he croaked, mouth parched.

"Nothing to trouble yourself with now, is it?"

Morse persisted. " _Where_ are you _taking me--?_ " 

Ollie growled. "I _said_ never you mind." He slowed to make a turn, a sharp pivot to the right. "You are as insufferable _now_ as you were _then_ \--" 

"I was _twelve!_ " Morse cried out, indignant. 

Ollie shrugged. "Doesn't make it any less true. And," he added, glancing back at Morse through the rearview mirror, "if you say _one more word_ before I stop this car again, I'll rip your _fucking_ tongue out." 

Morse remained silent.

* * * 

There were, over the course of years, particular crime scenes that Fred Thursday wished to scour from his memory, be they too bloody, too awful, too cruel. As he stared with a wide-eyed blankness around the small flat he and Jakes currently occupied, he knew this one would soon join their ranks. 

They were too late, Thursday had acknowledged aloud with a glassy-eyed stare, and now Morse was gone. 

As Jakes had crossed his field of vision to remove the needle from Morse's record on the turntable, Thursday's gaze remained focused on one singular object: the receiver of the telephone, hanging limply to the ground by its coiled cord.

One end of the plastic lay cracked, and though it was black, the slick shine of blood was clearly visible on its surface. Spatters of it had appeared on the carpeting, too, along with a series of bloodied handprints that were too large to be Morse's. Strange had noted similar prints on the sidewalk near the flat, and a crimson-tinged washcloth lay discarded haphazardly on the floor. Two distinct tracks through the fibers of the carpet had indicated that a heavy object had been dragged towards the doorway, where Jakes had located yet another series of prints on the frame, though partial.

"Sir," Jakes spoke dejectedly after several long minutes, "where else should we look?"

Thursday blinked, and turned towards his Detective Sergeant.

"Everywhere," he responded. "We look everywhere."

The sound of a needle skipping across the grooves of a record was not one Fred would soon forget. 

* * *

" _Wake up_ ," Ollie's voice commanded, and only then did Endeavour realize he had drifted off again. Careful not to make a sound, he struggled to open at least the one eye again. Ollie had turned the car off, shifting around in his seat to get a better view of Morse. 

"Well, go on, boy, _speak_. I know you've got questions. And don't bother asking where we are. I've been driving around in circles making sure we ain't been followed." 

Morse glared as best he could with one eye. "I'm not a _dog_."

"Doesn't change the fact that your father was a dirty, no good son of a _bitch_ ," his captor spat. 

Exhaling softly, Morse only said, "I know."

The corner of Ollie's lips twitched into the semblance of a crooked smile, eyebrows raised. "Not exactly Father of the Year, was he? Big surprise, that. But, here's something you didn't know about dear ol' dead Cyril: _he fucking ruined me_."

The harshness with which this was spoken sent shivers rippling across Morse's skin. Cuthbert continued. 

"See, your old man was a client of mine, before..." He hesitated. "Before, when I was a bookie. When I had a _family_. We'd chat in passing, grab a pint at the pub, when occasion called, but we were never exactly 'friends.' Mates, maybe, but never friends. Met the missus a few times, came over for dinner, here and there, but he was good people, then. Kept his account in order, paid me back money I'd lent him in time." Here, he cast his steely gaze upon Morse, jaw clenched in anger. "Until he didn't." 

Ollie leaned forward, his eyes alight with fury. "You see, one day, he didn't have it, this loan I'd offered, out of the _goodness of my heart_ ," here he stabbed his finger pointedly into his own chest, "and _my family_ was going to have to do without, so that _your family_ could--" 

"It wasn't _like that_ \--" Morse interrupted boldly, thinking on all the missed birthdays and sometimes, meals. Regardless, it was the wrong thing to say. Ollie suddenly reached over the console with his arm extended, and gripped Morse's jaw with enough force that he thought it might break. 

"You don't get to _speak anymore!_ " he yelled, fingers certain to leave bruises on Endeavour's pale skin. "Cyril'd bet the loan on a lame horse, lost it all, and then some. How, I didn't ask. All I knew is that I had to get my money back, and fast." Here, his grip tightened even more. "So, I plan a little heist, maybe recoup some of my losses. I've 2000 quid in my hand courtesy of a rival bookie, out of town for the day, when his friend pops by for a social call, catches me in the act. They're both dead, now." He manoeuvres Morse's head so that he can look him directly in the eye. "They sent me away, sentenced me to five years. Just before I'm to be let out..." 

Here, Ollie pauses, swallowing hard as jagged fingernails dig mercilessly into the flesh of the young detective's jaw, composure slipping dramatically. "My wife...my _wife and daughter_ were killed in a motor accident, gone in an _instant_. Everything I had is _gone_ , gone because of your father. I put a man in the hospital, after that, for lookin' at me wrong. Broke his back, I did. For the next five years, not a day went by that I didn't dream of killing Cyril Morse with my bare hands when I finally got out. All that kept me going, really. So, imagine my surprise upon finding out five days ago that he was _already fucking dead._ " 

Just when Morse swore his jaw would shatter into pieces, it was released. He gasped aloud in relief, blinking watering eyes until they cleared. Ollie stared at him with a piercing gaze. "But, you... _you_ were still alive. Saw you in the paper last year. You'd become a _policeman_. Your old man and me, we shared a mutual hatred of all coppers, really. We could at least agree upon that." He laughed aloud suddenly with a malicious grin. "Neither of us were overly fond of you, either, so that's at least two things that we had in common, I suppose." 

Morse decided he would pack that one away for later. It was simply too much, right now.

"'What the hell use was a copper?' I asked myself, looking at that paper. But, lo and behold, not three days ago your boys recovered that bouillon cache, and then I figured it out." Ollie leaned in, eyes shining bright in the darkness with a profound madness.

"You're going to help me get some of those bars, in lieu of what your miserable father owed me. Or, so help me God, I'll tear you limb from limb and let your little piggy friends try to put you back together again. Do we have a deal?"

Morse managed a nod through the fine tremors of abject horror that shook his frame, speechless in his terror.

"That's what I thought."

* * *

It had taken Thursday, Jakes, and Strange nearly half an hour to thoroughly search Morse's flat, as small as it was, for any clues as to where he might have been taken. Partial prints imprinted in blood rested upon several surfaces, but the time it would take to properly analyze them was time they didn't have to spare. Disgusted and dejected, the trio reconvened in the kitchen. Fred couldn't bear to look at the telephone any longer.

" _Think!_ " Fred declared in exasperation. "Was there something any of your witnesses might have said? No matter how insignificant?" Jakes ran another hand through his hair in thought while Strange fiddled with his cap. Jakes sighed in exhaustion. 

"We know Cuthbert is aware of Morse, because he spoke of him to his roommate, Samuel Aaronson..." Jakes stilled abruptly, replaying the conversation from that day. He then glanced up at Strange suddenly, eyes wide in recognition. Jim furrowed his brow quizzically, but the process behind Jakes' unfinished thought eventually dawned on him. 

"He also knew about the recovered gold, too. Sir. Mentioned a debt that needed paid," Strange recalled with a shake of his head, the hazy details of their last interview coming back into focus.

"Oh, _God_ , the betting slips, I'd nearly forgotten!" Jakes cried out in alarm, eyes blown wide. "That's why we rushed over here to begin with!" It seemed so long ago, now. "DeBryn found them, during autopsy, two betting slips folded up in plastic and placed in George Simpson's mouth. Cuthbert had been the bookie, but Cyril Morse the client. Which indicates Cuthbert knew them all from Lincolnshire."

Thursday's darkened gaze bore a hole through Jakes where he stood. "And you just now remembered to tell me this?" Jakes ducked his head in shame, wincing with the admonishment, Strange mirroring the movement.

"I'm...sorry, Sir, this has all been...rather upsetting..." Peter concluded lamely, and nervously fished around for his lighter in his left pocket, patting for the pack of smokes with his right. Thursday stopped his movements with a gentle but firm hand upon his shoulder. 

Fred pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing loudly. "I'm sorry, Jakes, that was out of line. You lads did the best you could, and it's been nerve-wracking for all of us. I apologize." He then patted Jakes twice on the shoulder before Peter responded with a single, firm nod.

"Think nothing of it, Sir. Cuthbert may have taken Morse to help him steal some of the cache, if he's so concerned about having a debt repaid. I...I don't know why else, really."

Strange cleared his throat, addressing his superiors. "If I may...this goes well beyond an actual monetary debt. I understand that, well, rather, I heard something may have happened with, um, Morse's mother." Both Peter and Thursday shared a glance. "Is it true?" Strange forged on, "That he...dug her up?"

Thursday nodded sadly. "Someone did, yes. I won't ask where you got your information from."

Jim hung his head sadly, nodding in acknowledgement. "Thank you, sir. It's just...I'm worried, that he may try to really _hurt_ him."

"If Cuthbert really is using Morse to get to the cache, then we need to find them, and fast," Jakes agreed, "starting with the nick."

Thursday nodded, a cold, rarely seen anger simmering in his eyes. He then closed the door to Morse's flat with a soft click, lights left on to greet him when he returned. 

God help them all, but he would return.

* * *

Morse rode in silence with his captor towards Cowley Station, his synapses absolutely frazzled from fear and exhaustion. He had to escape, if he expected to see the sun rise, but it was hard to be clever when a concussion muddled one's thoughts. He instead enquired boldly about the one subject left unbroached.

"Why?" he asked softly, watching as Ollie caught his gaze on the rearview mirror. "Why my mother? What..." He swallowed, tears gathering in his eyes. "What did she _ever_ do to you? To _deserve_ what _you did_ to her? She was a good person, who had enough sense to leave my father early on. _Why bring her into this?_ " Morse finished with a deep-seated anger, jaw clenched firmly.

Ollie eyed him for the longest time, his intense gaze unnerving to Morse. Finally, he spoke. 

"I was there, remember? At the funeral? I saw them close the casket, and then drop her in, six feet deep. That's when we were still mates, and I thought about that day for a long while after. Including," he announced, making a sudden sharp turn, "the day Cyril told me he didn't have my money." 

"See, what I also remembered from that day was the gold pendant your mother had worn, the one around her neck as they slammed that coffin lid shut. It caught the light, is what drew my attention to it. And it was then and there, looking down on your father's sad, _pathetic_ fucking face as he told me he'd be late with my money, that I remembered the pendant. I had planned on digging it up and pawning it for cash at first, just to stick it to him, but by the time I got out of the clink, I wanted more than just money. I wanted him to suffer, just like I did. I wanted him dead." He shrugged. "I meant by my own hands, of course. Be careful what you wish for, I suppose." 

A cold fury awakened within Morse's gut at his words. "You _left_ her there," he seethed. "You _left_ her to _rot_ above ground, like some unloved _thing_." There were tears of anger pooling in his eyes, his body vibrating with tension. " _Why_ did you _do_ that to her? She was...she was _everything_ to me. _How could you?_ " 

Ollie turned around completely in his seat as he drove to address Morse face to face. "I did what I did because your father loved her. Nothing less, nothing more."

Endeavour struggled to sit up properly, but his pulsating head would not allow it. "You had _no right!_ " he screamed in absolute rage at the madman piloting his probable hearse, "You had _no FUCKING RIGHT--!_ " 

Ollie swerved the car over abruptly, slamming on the brakes. Morse slid forward, his forehead striking the back of the passenger seat with a startled gasp. Cuthbert turned around and pinned him with a hawk's gaze, knuckles white where they gripped the steering wheel.

" _I HAD EVERY FUCKING RIGHT, YOU GODDAMNED PISS-ANT_. Eye for an eye... _wife for a wife_."

Before Morse could respond, Ollie announced, "We're here."

Cowley Station loomed before them, deathly quiet this time of night. Silent, Morse thought with a shiver, as a tomb.

He couldn't help but feel that it might become his own.


	11. Snake in the Burrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heed all tags and warnings once again. This one's a doozy.

The night watch had begun, and the solace of the nick after-hours had comforted Morse on many an odd evening when he needed the clarity necessary for solving a difficult case. This night, however, was not to be counted among them.

Inside the doors of Cowley Station, Morse took a deep breath through his mouth to steady his nerves, hand pressed firmly against the wall in an effort to hold himself upright. The calming exercise failed to work. The only reason he didn't outright flee from his captor was the promised threat of endured violence to the desk sergeant if he reneged on his part of the 'deal,' as if he wanted any part of it to begin with. That, and the large knife sheathed alongside Cuthbert's calf.

_"I'll cut you loose, but I swear to you if this goes sideways, I'll slice you both into unrecognizable bits. I'm not walking out of here without that gold, do you understand me?"_

_Even though Morse only thought the first half of that last sentence to be correct, he nodded sharply._

His assigned task was simple: distract the desk sergeant while Cuthbert subdued him, the only other officer in the building. Morse couldn't help feel like he was shattering his colleague's trust in him, however, and hoped one day to be forgiven. Then, he was to take Ollie to the evidence locker where the cache was stored. After that? After that he had absolutely no idea how much longer Cuthbert would keep him alive. He tried not to think about the inevitable.

Running his hand along the darkened hallway wall to help maintain a sense of balance, Endeavour approached the night desk with heavy trepidation. The desk sergeant, an experienced man by the name of Yardsley, was slightly startled by his sudden appearance. "Detective Constable Morse, I-I didn't expect to see you this late." Morse ducked his head in shame as Yardsley eyed him inquisitively. "Sir, are...are you alright? Has something happened?" he asked in alarm, moving to stand up as he took in the shocking amount of blood that coated his colleague's battered face. "Sir, you should really be in hospital--"

Morse squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head sadly. "I-I'm sorry --" he began, before Yardsley pitched forward abruptly and then collapsed as he was struck from behind. He watched as Cuthbert immediately secured his wrists and ankles with more cable ties, and then relieved him of his service piece, nestling it behind his back betwixt shirt and waistband under his jacket. He then gasped aloud as Ollie's foot drew back, kicking Yardsley in the jaw once for good measure.

" _Enough!_ " he cried out. "You said you wouldn't hurt him further!"

Ollie shrugged. "Can't hurt if he can't feel it. Now, get a move on before I really do some damage."

* * *

Upon their hurried return to the cars, Jakes picked up the radio receiver in the Jag to inquire of potential sightings of Cuthbert's plates or vehicle. Strange slid into the back seat, and Thursday the driver's, the trio having opted to band together in a single unit.

"This is Detective Sergeant Jakes. Do you copy?" he called over the receiver to dispatch as the Jag roared to life. There was naught but static. He glanced up at Thursday's grim countenance. "I repeat, do you copy?" he called, voice tinged with worry. Peter was met with an unnatural silence.

Before he could call a third time, Thursday peeled out onto the street. "It's alright, lad," he said, his lined face set like granite. "We know where they are."

The breakneck ride to Cowley Station was fraught with a tension so thick one could have cut it only with the finest of knives.

* * *

Try as he might, Morse simply could not design a plan clever enough to escape either Cuthbert or the nick safely, his concussion and throbbing skull conspiring against any attempts at a cognizant plan. He only had one option, and that was to try and stall for time. He accomplished this by leading Ollie towards the evidence locker.

Cuthbert needn't have known it was the wrong one.

Flicking on the series of switches near the metal staircase, dim lightbulbs half-heartedly illuminated their intended floor, darkness leaching the light from the lower levels. "It's down here, to the left," he announced quietly, withdrawing a set of keys from his pocket as he began his descent. Cuthbert said naught, and trailed Morse with little room to be had for personal space. He didn't like to be crowded on a good day, and this was as far from that as one could get.

Having arrived at their destination, Morse shakily inserted a key into the door lock and turned, brain valiantly trying to formulate a plan with every passing moment. He swung the door inward and clicked on the light switch, revealing shelves stacked high with boxes.

Ollie walked in behind him, looking around in wonderment. "This all it, then?" he questioned quietly, more to himself, it seemed. Morse nodded in affirmation with a hum. "Well, show me."

Morse swallowed, his life very well dependent on his next steps. He watched Ollie take in the sheer number of boxes around them, no doubt extrapolating the value of the gold he imagined to be contained within each. _Let him_ , he thought bitterly, _it's the closest he'll ever get_. Having spent a fair amount of time moving the contents of the boxes, Morse made a calculated guess as to what those nearest him really contained, and steeled himself before making his next move. 

"Alright," he agreed, and turned to the box closest to where he had purposely positioned himself. He pulled it out partially, opening it and sticking his hand inside with caution. Inhaling deeply, Morse mentally apologized to those unnamed victims who would be affected by his next actions, and then swiftly withdrew a knife, still in its evidence bag, and rounded on his assailant while lunging forward with sheer determination glittering in his eyes.

Cuthbert's time in prison allowed for him to hone his reflexes after some time had passed, the result of having to watch one's back, front, and all the parts in between daily for a solid decade. It was something Morse had failed to take into consideration.

Ollie struck his hand out, quick as a whip, and grasped where Morse's right fist clenched the hilt of the knife, and in one singular motion, twisted. The sickening _snap_ of breaking bones caused his fingers to loosen, the knife clattering useless to the floor, and Endeavour _screamed_. 

The pained wail echoed against the metal shelves of the evidence room as he stumbled backwards, and the fire that burned through his wrist nearly drove him to his knees. Morse drew a shuddering gasp as he struggled to stay upright, tears blinding him. " _No_..." he whispered forlornly, nearly inaudible. He had _failed_. Only then did he realize that Ollie had yet to release his broken appendage, and was surprised when the other man grabbed ahold of the young detective's once-white shirt with his free hand, rearing his head back with a feral growl before headbutting Endeavour in the mouth with an animalistic grunt. 

Morse saw flashes of white light as he was driven to the floor, kneecaps _cracking_ against the hard surface with a pained yelp through bloodied teeth. He vaguely remembered his broken wrist as he pitched forward, but he never made contact. Fingernails had dug themselves mercilessly into the back of his scalp, clutching an entire fistful of ginger curls. Morse's head was then _slammed_ into the concrete, once, twice, striking him sharply in the left temple and cheekbone with each unforgiving thrust, a great resounding _crack_ audible before he was released to collapse upon the cold floor. 

Endeavour wept openly as he lay sprawled face-down on the ground, shaken beyond measure, yet still conscious. He could feel blood wetting his face, rivulets streaming from the gash on his temple, and from his busted lip. Before he could further process what had happened, the toe of a boot struck him in the shoulder with considerable force, flipping him over onto his back. He swallowed a groan, and then the air was pressed from his lungs as Ollie sat atop him, straddling his torso.

The weight upon his chest nigh unbearable, Morse's eyes flew open in an utter panic, unable to draw a substantial breath. It wouldn't matter, for Ollie soon wrapped thick fingers around his neck, and _squeezed_. Morse's good hand curled into a fist instantaneously and beat whatever parts of Cuthbert he could reach, legs kicking and flailing, bucking wildly as the life was choked from him. The looming figure trembled with uncontrollable anger atop Morse's chest, teeth clenched tightly as he bared them in a snarl at his prey's struggles. His eyes, that unnerving tarnished grey, were now a nightmarish molten steel, burning hot with a fiery rage. 

Rough fingers threatened to crush his windpipe like a tin can, and his mouth worked soundlessly as he struggled for a breath. Ollie leaned over, voice low and grating in his left ear. 

"That's just what your mother looked like, last I saw her," he taunted, sitting back as he mimicked what Morse could only assume was supposed to be a horrendous approximation of Constance's, shriveled, time-worn face as she tumbled from her grave.

Endeavour noted a dark grey creeping around the edges of his vision, in which he began to see tiny bursts of light encroaching. Then he heard dull, rhythmic _thumps_ from above, clattering louder and louder until he started to imagine voices, as well, but just barely so. He only dimly realized those weren't hallucinations when Cuthbert also took notice.

Cuthbert bared his teeth, then looked over his shoulder suddenly, through the open door of the dimly lit room they occupied, watching for something off in the distance. Morse had stilled considerably, his left hand clasped weakly around Ollie's forearm, but with no real energy left with which to struggle. His eyes had nearly drifted closed when Cuthbert inexplicably let him go.

Morse's back arched sharply from the floor of its own accord in a near convulsion as a great gasping inhale was wrenched from his lungs, struggling desperately to obtain a gulping breath of air. His hands flew to his throat with a wheeze, coughing violently as his airway became blessedly unobstructed. The freedom wouldn't last much longer.

The clamouring footfalls grew louder in volume as they rapidly struck against grated metal stairs. First one pair, then two and three, approaching quickly. It was at that moment Morse was jerked upright by his shirt-front, and heaved up and around dizzyingly to stand with his face towards the open door as three figures appeared through the darkness. The dim light reflected off their weapons, indistinguishable, but most certainly present and aimed in their direction. One muscled arm roughly snaked around Endeavour's neck, pulling him close, _too close_ , to Cuthbert's chest, while the other wrapped tightly around his forehead with a fierce grip. 

" _One step closer_ ," Ollie thundered, reverberations vibrating against Morse's back, " _and I'll break his fucking neck._ " 

That Orville Michael Cuthbert appeared a desperate man without a clear escape strategy became frighteningly apparent.

"Now put your guns on the ground," Orville began, and Morse couldn't help but release a quiet whimper as thick arms tightened around his head and neck, "and move aside while we walk out of here."

Endeavour knew Thursday would never let Ollie leave the building alive, and with a searing, wrenching pain in his gut, he knew _he_ wouldn't be, either.

* * *

Thursday stood mortified at the scene before them, not understanding how everything had gone so disastrously wrong so quickly. The missed clues, their timing, everything led to this horrific moment, the culmination of his worst fears as both a Detective Inspector and a mentor. His bagman, his young colleague and friend, held hostage by a volatile murderer who, only just days ago, had disinterred the young man's mother from her grave and left her there, for no discernible reason other than a cancerous spite that had rooted into his very being over a decade ago and had since taken complete hold, a true parasite. And Morse hadn't a clue until it was too late to escape his wrathful, unwarranted vengeance.

And now? Now, Endeavour was clutched like an unloved rag doll, his gangly limbs mostly limp with exhaustion, held with force against the larger man, himself an angry, petulant child threatening to utterly destroy the battered toy unless his demands were met. A tantrum with potentially fatal consequences. Fred watched Morse's knees begin to buckle, trying his damnedest to remain upright. The few hours that had passed since he last saw Morse had changed the young man irrevocably, and that was only what he could physically see. Mentally, he didn't doubt Morse's fortitude, but the events of the last week were enough to cut even the strongest among them down to no more than a sawed-off stump. 

The utterly hopeless look present in Endeavour's agonized gaze nearly drove Thursday to his knees in grief, at what had already been done to the lad. While his left hand pried weakly at Cuthbert's stranglehold, his right hung limp and swollen, broken, no doubt. Blood both dried and fresh had soaked into his previously white dress shirt, no longer pressed and presentable as it had been that morning. The lad's nose had clearly been broken with a considerable amount of force, the swelling spreading a deep purple across freckled cheeks. It would have to be reset to heal properly, Thursday was certain of it. His lower lip was busted, a defined split clearly visible through the scarlet staining his lips. But it was the horrific gash that bled freely from Morse's left temple that caused him the most concern. Blood ran down the left side of his face in rivulets, defining the curve of his bruised cheekbone and his jawline. It was on the apples of his cheeks, however, could Thursday see the tracks left by unwelcome tears the clearest, and it made his heart clench in consummate sorrow.

Fred Thursday had no idea how to negotiate the situation, and it disturbed him deeply.

His gaze darkened as he addressed Cuthbert. "Haven't you done enough?" he demanded, voice unmistakably hoarse with emotion.

And that bastard looked right into his eyes and had the gall to say, "No." He then twisted Morse's head a fair amount for good measure. Endeavour slammed his eyelids shut and with an audible gasp, assured that this was the moment of his certain death. It was not to be.

"Drop 'em, or I drop him, your choice."

With a low growl, Thursday placed his gun on the ground, Strange and Jakes following suit. He spared a glance back at them, and the utter shock in their eyes mirrored that in Morse's own. What choice did he have, really?

None. He had _none_.

Cuthbert damned well knew it.

And then he _smiled_.

"Good boys," he said mockingly, but I can't trust a copper."

He then released the arm encircling Morse's head and withdrew it behind his back, and in the next instant he was levelling a cocked service pistol directly at Jakes. Thursday stood stock-still, Jakes' eyes going round at this sudden development. He heard a hoarse, " _NO!_ " breathed from Morse's lips, and glanced towards his bagman again. In that instant, Thursday witnessed a flash of determination in Endeavour's eyes, and something else, an unidentifiable... _sadness?_ And then Morse grimaced deeply, forcing his broken wrist to move as he brought it up as high as he could, before he swung down and struck Cuthbert squarely in the genitals. 

Morse's agonized shriek upon contact and Cuthbert's wailing shout of surprise blended into a strange cacophony of the damned, and all present watched as Ollie's gun pointed wildly about as he tried to focus on Peter through the pain, releasing neither the pistol nor Morse. He then aimed again, though not as steadily as before, and Thursday watched as Morse recovered his wits and struck a leg out towards the door swung inward on its hinges, kicking it forward so that it slammed shut with a shout, at the very moment the pistol had been fired.

" _MORSE!_ " Thursday screamed, dropping into a crouched position alongside his men as the bullet tore through the small glass window with a deafening shatter near the top of the door, piercing the wall behind them. Snatching up their own weapons, they moved to flank the door immediately, amidst the shouts and struggling within. Bent low, they waited for an opportune moment to kick the door back open, Thursday standing to peer cautiously through the remnants of the window. 

Endeavour yelped loudly, as did Cuthbert, one or the other slamming here and there against the shelves, the door, and the ground. Then, two more gunshots rent the still air, and Fred withdrew quickly, pressed flat against the wall near where Strange still hovered in a crouch. The bullets didn't leave the room, this time.

The unmistakable sound of a body crumpling to the floor thudded loudly, and then, silence. Thursday leaned over and attempted to survey the scene inside, heart hammering wildly in fear of what he might find. Both Jakes and Strange stood alongside him as he did, no doubt aware of the exact moment his face slackened, taking in the scene within.

"Morse?" he whispered, brokenly.

Only then did Peter and Jim fear the worst.


	12. As a Father Should

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter after this! Well, one and a half, at most, before the 4:00 p.m. Express Train to Whumpville makes its way into Hurt-Comfort Station. What a ride it has been!

Time crawled to a near stop.

Fred's colleagues watched in trepidation as he moved to open the evidence room door, and his hand shook slightly as he turned the knob.

"Morse?" he questioned again, and to Jim Strange it sounded like his guv'nor actively tried to get the other man's attention.

He and Jakes peered inside as Thursday swung the door open cautiously, leaving the space clear as he stepped within.  


Jim released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and his broad shoulders slumped in relief. Morse was alive, that much was certain, but categorically _unwell_. His friend had slumped to the floor, back against the wall, broken wrist curled beside him on the cold concrete. The other hand, however, still held the pistol aloft, aimed directly at where his tormentor mirrored a similar position across the room. 

Cuthbert, however, was most certainly dead. The single bullet hole pierced between the eyes was evidence enough.

Yet, Morse still gripped the pistol with a trembling hand, and when Jim looked closer, he realized that his whole body shook with tremors, chest heaving with ragged breaths. His wide, azure eyes stared at nothing in particular, but they remained haunted and gleaming with fright.

Approaching slowly, Fred crouched down, and calmly held his palm upturned as he again addressed Morse.

"Morse?" he began, voice firm yet quiet. "It's over now, lad, you're safe. Why don't you give me the gun, yeah?"

Morse did no such thing, Fred's calming voice having fallen on deaf ears. Jim's worry was palpable.

" _Endeavour_ ," Thursday commanded. " _Give me the gun_."

Morse started at this, tilting his head towards Thursday, but his gaze remained resolutely focused on Cuthbert's corpse, at the steady stream of blood that flowed from between Ollie's dulled, dead eyes. Jim was unnerved by their intensity, even after death. When Morse finally spoke, his strangled voice sounded of gravel and grit, grated against rusted metal. 

"No," he intoned quietly, and swallowed with pronounced difficulty. Strange was shocked by both the band of blackened bruises that encircled nearly the entirety of Morse's brutalized neck, and also his dismissal of Thursday.

He shook his head slightly as he continued. "No, don't...don't call me _that_ , that's what _she_ called me, and I..." he drifted off, vision blurred as tears accumulated once more. He blinked once, quickly. "I need to go see her, to put...to put her _back_ \--" Morse's voice cracked, unaware that his words had chilled the bones of those around him. " _Why_..." he gasped loudly as he drew a deep breath, the tremors throughout his lean frame having increased with each passing moment, " _why_ do I have to put her _back_? She didn't...she didn't _deserve_ that--!" 

" _MORSE!_ " Thursday bellowed, and it was enough to finally grab his undivided attention. The moment the younger man turned in full towards his guv'nor, he inadvertently lowered the pistol, and in a single movement, Thursday disarmed him. His bagman didn't seem to be cognizant of this, however, the gun slipping from his fingers without hesitation. Fred handed the gun to Jakes with a pointed look, before he gently clasped Morse on the shoulders. 

"Keep your head up, lad. Let me take a look at you," Fred said calmly, while his heart raced with urgency. Thursday gently placed a hand on Endeavour's cheek to tilt his chin upwards, fresh tears wet against his palm. Morse hummed quietly at the contact, the first in countless hours that hadn't tried to cause him bodily harm. His glassy eyes searched Thursday's questioningly, curious as to why they had suddenly grown round in alarm.

Thursday looked afright as he cast his gaze over his shoulder towards his colleagues. Morse's pupils were uneven, and indicated not only a probable concussion, but perhaps worse. 

"Get me an ambulance, _now_." 

Strange jumped at the command, glad to be useful in some way. " _Sir_." 

And, though he'd never admit it, witnessing his friend in such a state unnerved the constable so. 

* * *

Endeavour's right pupil was of a normal size, but his left was nearly twice that. Fred had seen enough head injuries in the war to know for certain his bagman had one, and he feared what the severity of it might be. Trembling a few moments ago, Morse had grown alarmingly listless in a short spanse of time, though Fred supposed the adrenaline could have worn off, as well.

"Morse, you need to stay awake, lad. It's important, do you hear me?" Thursday instructed firmly, his weathered hands now cupping Morse's face to keep it aright. Morse furrowed his brow gently in contemplation, and finally nodded in understanding. His bagman's gaze then drifted over to where Cuthbert's body lay cooling in the chilled room.

"I...killed him," Endeavour whispered, his voice barely audible. "I _killed_ a man," he declared in a panic, breathing ragged. " _I fucking killed him--!_ " he swore with an agonized groan, and became more agitated with each passing moment in Thursday's grasp. 

Fred had grown alarmed by his suddenly cursing and struggling colleague, and tried not to injure him further as he restrained him. "Morse, you need to calm down--"

" _No!_ " he cried out harshly, voice near breaking. "Let me go, _please!_ I had to! Please, I _had_ to--!"

"Lad, no one is laying another hand on you, do you hear me?" Fred tried to reason, as he moved his hands to encircle Endeavour's upper arms in an effort to keep him seated, Jakes crouching down in alarm to assist if necessary. But, Morse was not to be tamed so easily.

A great, disconsolate sob tore from his abused lungs, his voice raised high with panic. " _He meant to bury me alive!_ " he wept aloud, " _I didn't want to die--!_ "

Fred simply looked at Jakes with no small measure of fear in his eyes at Morse's rapidly deteriorating condition, and to Peter it looked as though his guv'nor had aged a decade in the past few hours alone. Though, he suspected, Morse's horrific admission had just given them both new, silver hairs.

"Morse, I need you to listen to me. _You saved my life_ ," Jakes said quietly yet firmly, moving even closer to his battered colleague without crowding him. He strategically positioned himself so that he blocked Endeavour's view of the deceased. "You know that, right? I'd be dead if it weren't for you. What you did? I can't thank you enough." 

Morse stilled his struggles momentarily, warily searching for sincerity in Jakes' expression. He relaxed considerably upon finding it, and closed his eyes with a soft huff of air. "My head...hurts terribly," Morse then declared with a softness that made him nearly impossible to hear. He then reached up with his one functioning hand and moved to prod his face before it was intercepted gently by Thursday.

"Might not be the best idea right now, lad," he admonished quietly, before Morse could discover just how much blood he'd lost. He'd find out in hospital soon enough. 

Endeavour nodded, then looked tiredly between both Thursday and Jakes. "You found me," he acknowledged with no small amount of wonder. "You... _looked_ for me..." 

Jakes quirked his lips in a sad smile. "Of course, we did. We look out for our own, here." He then looked up at Thursday after a few silent moments had passed. "If it's alright, sir, I could assist Strange..."

Fred nodded, and watched as Peter gave a quick, affirming nod in Morse's direction with a genuine grin that was returned in some measure by the injured man, albeit around a split lip. He then glanced once more at the indescribable sadness in Endeavour's bewildered gaze that spoke of a time when perhaps the outcome of the current scenario wouldn't have been so obvious to him, when those tasked with loving him had done so, but only _conditionally_ , when family had been a concept attainable to others, but _never_ for him, and he reacted in a way only a father knew how. 

Chucking any sense of professionalism out of the proverbial window, he sat back against the wall to the right of Morse with a sigh of, " _Bugger it_ ," and wrapped his arm around his bagman's left shoulder. He then gently pulled him close, so that the younger man's head rested against Thursday's own shoulder, blood and dirt be damned. "C'mon, then," he invited quietly, hugging him closely as Morse leaned into the warmth and security being offered, mindful of his broken wrist. Fred then gently rested his chin upon the crown of Morse's head as the young man wept softly with the weight of all that had occurred in the last few days, and attempted to calm him with quiet words of comfort. 

"You'll be alright, lad," he spoke, blinking his own tears away as he stared without remorse at Cuthbert's remains, "help's on its way. Not much longer, now..."

If anyone thought the scene before them odd by the time the paramedics arrived, they were sure to keep it to themselves, lest they incur the wrath of Fred Thursday.


	13. A Family Not of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMFG. Did I just write 28k words?
> 
> Jibbers Crabst.
> 
> FYI, this last chapter was going to be a five paragraph epilogue but LOLOLOLOL what was _I_ thinking? It's like I forgot what fandom I was writing for! HA! Jokes on me!
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and responding, and kudos-ing, and maybe even gasping quietly to yourselves at home, it's all appreciated. If anyone wants to challenge me to a fic, I'd be interested to see what prompts might be sent my way. No promises it would be completed anytime soon, but, you never know unless you try. Which is how I ended up coddling THIS monster.
> 
> Giant, Whumpy, Baby Monster.

Fred Thursday had never considered himself an impatient man, not since becoming a father, but there remained a deep level of anxiety associated with conducting a bedside vigil, as he did now. Part of him wanted to gently shake Morse until he finally awoke, to know for certain that he _would_ awaken again, and yet another sought to ensure that the younger man received the healing rest he so desperately needed. Only in deep slumber did he look truly at peace, though Fred knew that would change the moment he opened his eyes once more. 

As it were, he would find that out, sooner than later.

Hospital staff had provided Morse with a private room, given the nature of his injuries upon admission. Thursday sincerely hoped that his bagman remembered very little of his arrival the previous day, having been quite delirious and combative by the time he was wheeled on a stretcher into surgery. He had slipped in and out of consciousness the ride over, and at one point had grown completely still even as Thursday held onto him atop the ancient tile of the evidence room. When a gentle shake hadn't worked to rouse the lad, Fred had resorted to lightly slapping his cheek in an effort to get him to awaken. When Morse finally did so, he had quickly taken on the appearance of a hunted animal caught in the sight of a crossbow all too eager to dispatch of him, and Fred had felt that unleashed arrow pierce his own heart. As with his own children, Endeavour was too young to have experienced such heartless villainy, and yet, he had.

Now, all Fred knew was that the swelling in his brain had been alleviated before any lasting damage could incur, the specifics lost to him in a haze of medical jargon, and his wrist stabilized while Morse had been blessedly unconscious thanks to whatever had been flowing into him intravenously. His nose, too, had been reset, sparing him any undue agony upon awakening. The rest Thursday learned of by simply looking at the form lying atop the hospital bed before him.

Endeavour lay prone, too still by half, surrounded by washed-out pastels and sterile whiteness. His copper hair shone in comparison, a radiant halo framing an overly pale face, marred by a myriad of plasters and violently inflicted purple-black bruises. It made Fred sick, to know how he came by them. His broken wrist lay ensconced in a thick, white cast propped beside him, from the bottom of his fingers extending the length of his forearm to his elbow. Wires from beneath the sage surgical gown led to machines with monitors that beeped a steady cadence, life-affirming in their repetition.

Fred contemplated how life had changed in the past 48 hours. One of their own, stolen from under them, taking the life of another just to survive the ordeal. Kill, or be killed, as it were. Had they been just five minutes later, it would have been four too many. What had perhaps shocked the DI and his team the most was the large blade found concealed under Cuthbert's trouser leg, hitched-up from his and Morse's struggle, suspected to be the missing weapon from the Bertie Williams murder. But, it wasn't the knife itself that stole the air from the room at its discovery, but the knowledge that the deceased criminal could have used it, or the pilfered gun, at any given moment to subdue Morse, yet he had chosen _fists_ as his preferred weapon of choice to beat the young detective into submission.

The thought was staggering, to say the least, when one considered the level of hatred necessary for such a display of violence.

A dusting of bruises lay scattered along Morse's jawline, interspersed with the crescent indentations of fingernails where he had obviously been grabbed by force, now a faded crimson. His neck bore the worst of it, in terms of just how violently Cuthbert had attempted to choke the brilliant light from his eyes, through both unyielding, crushing fingers and the cutting edge of tightly wound fabric. Endeavour's role as a stand-in for his father served Ollie well enough in his thirst for vengeance, but had very nearly destroyed the son physically, his fractured skull testament to Cuthbert's pronounced hatred. How lasting the mental trauma would be was a consideration for later, as Fred was suddenly startled by the twitching of his bagman's eyelids.

Pale lashes fluttered open and Endeavour's gaze slid into focus, his brow furrowed in confusion as he took in the starkness and sterility around him. He closed his eyes briefly as they sought to adjust to the light, still unaware of Thursday's presence. Fred then leaned foward, creaking the plastic chair gently so as not to startle him. Morse gasped lightly, breath caught in his throat as he turned his face towards the sound, eyes awakening in fear. With a heavy heart did Thursday come to the conclusion if he didn't try to aid in his recovery in some way, that this might be the new normal for Morse.

Not on his watch.

"It's only me, Morse. You're in hospital."

Endeavour eyed him quizzically. "'ospit'l?" he questioned weakly, and slowly shook his head in denial. "N-no, 'hat's imposs'ble..." He then hesitantly brought his left hand up to rest on his forehead in thought, fingers parting his hair into waves in contemplation. The very moment he remembered it all in sharp focus was one Fred wished he could erase from existence altogether. 

Morse stilled suddenly, gaze watery as fingers curled into his scalp. An array of emotions flitted across his expressive face in rapid succession, before finally settling on acceptance, his eyes closing in resigned acknowledgement. He was silent for some time after. "Not a nigh'mare, th'n," he then whispered sadly.

Fred cleared his throat softly, leaning forward towards the bed. "No, lad. I'm sorry."

" _Oh_ ," Morse breathed in reply. 

"What...what do you remember?" Thursday questioned gently, curious.

Morse swallowed thickly, his gaze averted. "Not much," he lied, and Thursday let him, this once. "I remember you, and Strange, and _Jakes_ , of all people," he spoke, voice stronger, though still quite rough. 

Thursday nodded. "Jakes was the first to volunteer to sit with you, if you can believe it. Strange, too--"

"They didn't have to," Morse said in a rush. "No one had to--" his voice faltered, blue eyes suddenly swimming with emotion. Even though he worked his damaged throat for several moments after, he didn't trust himself to say another word more, lest he come apart like a poorly constructed paper boat set to sail on the Isis.

Fred eyed him cautiously. "You're right. We didn't _have_ to, we _wanted_ to. What happened to you, earlier, rattled us right good--" 

"I'm _sorry_ \--"

"What _for_ , lad?" Fred sighed in exasperation, hand moving to gently clasp Morse on his shoulder. "You've done nothing wrong. Why can't you believe that?" 

"I'm..." Endeavour shook his head, and quickly thumbed a few stray tears away. "I'm used to being a _burden_ , to others, to my _family_. I'm not used to people... _caring_. It's just...it takes some getting used to, is all. Having that, having _you all_ in my life." He sniffed loudly, his lips quirking into a smile as his cheeks blushed furiously. "It's...different." 

Fred leaned back with a slight grin, still with a comforting hand curved around Morse's shoulder. He then shifted in the plastic seat uncomfortably. "Look, Morse...I want you to take a few days leave, once you're out, take some time for yourself--"

Of course, his bagman balked at the idea immediately. "Thank you, sir, but that's unnecessary--"

" _Unnecessary?_ " Fred exclaimed, taken aback. "Son, that man threatened to _bury you alive_ , or have you forgotten that so quickly?" 

Morse stiffened, and, until that moment, had really looked everywhere _but_ his guv'nor. Fred soon found his gaze trapped by Morse's own, sharp as glass, despite the tears. "I'll _never_ forget that, sir. _Ever_. Not so long as I live and breathe." He blinked a few times drowsily, his anger dissipating as suddenly as it had taken hold. "How... _could_ I forget that, even if I wanted to? I believed him, that he'd do it, whether or not I helped him." He cast his eyes downwards, towards nothing in particular. "It wasn't a threat I took lightly, or I'd've run. But..." Here, Morse's voice softened, gaze unfocused as he considered his next words. "But, I knew he'd always find me again, one way or another." 

"I'm sorry, Morse," Fred replied with a warm squeeze of his shoulder. "I should never have said that to you. I'll say this with conviction, though: I'm _glad_ you killed him first. He deserved no less for what he put you through. Your death would have meant the end of my career as a copper--" 

" _Sir--!_ " 

"And that's the truth!" Fred finished, jaw set firm as he felt tears begin to cloud his own vision. "I already lost one promising young man under my watch," he said quietly, by way of explanation. "I'll not lose you, too."

Endeavour sat stunned, gaze searching for...something in Thursday's own. "What...what am I supposed to say to that?" he asked, sounding more lost than Fred had heard previously. 

"Say you'll take some time for yourself, a week, perhaps, just this once. Promise me you'll rest that clever brain of yours and...and maybe talk to someone, too. It doesn't have to be a shrink, or anything, just...someone you trust. You'll need it more than you realize, I think," Fred finished hesitantly.

Morse nodded thoughtfully, meeting Thursday's gaze head-on. "Alright."

Fred smiled. It was progress.

* * *

Morse was released two days later, much to his gratitude. He had never wanted to hear his music, hear his one calming solace, as badly as he had at that moment. The aria that had set the backdrop for Ollie's brutal attack and abduction, on the other hand, was probably to be given to a charity shop. 

Or, more likely, burned.

Thursday had picked him up after being discharged in the late afternoon, but had needed a quick stop at the stationhouse to sign off on a handful of forms before continuing on to Morse's flat. Strange had volunteered to head over prior to tidy the place up a bit, in an attempt to erase the evidence of what had transpired there not a week before. His guv'nor had also promised to stay with him that evening until he felt comfortable enough to be alone, but Endeavour wasn't certain at that moment whether or not that would ever truly be possible.

Morse was glad for Cowley's emptiness after hours, not having the desire for small talk at the moment as he tried his damnedest to block the memories of the last time he'd been there. As it were, he followed Thursday mindlessly, lost in his thoughts, stopping short of walking into his guv'nor's office by halting at his own desk. The state he had left it in hadn't been too terrible, but Morse eyed the wayward manilla folder on his desk, and assumed it had been haphazardly placed there in his absence. But, after one look, he knew it had not been an accident.

The name written on the tab read, ' _Ross, Theodore_ ,' but the front was stamped, _Closed_.

He flipped through it with his unencumbered hand as it lay flat on the desk, only mildly aware of Jakes' entrance into the room. As he turned each page with a furrowed brow, he heard Peter clear his throat gently behind him.

"Morse," he acknowledged in slight surprise.

Glancing up at Jakes, he questioned, "You're here late. What's this, then?"

Peter raised his eyebrows high, chin tilted sheepishly. "You were right," he declared, "about the Ross case." He met Endeavour's inquisitive gaze. "There was something off about the daughter. We got a full confession."

Morse quirked an eyebrow, " _We...?_ "

"Strange and I," Jakes elaborated. "A 'welcome back' gift of sorts, I suppose."

Morse blinked a few times owlishly, rubbing at his earlobe absently in thought. "You...solved my case?"

Jakes shrugged, eyes cast down. "I suppose we did, yes. You're not the only clever one around he--"

"Peter?"

The DS glanced up, unsure if he'd ever heard the other man address him by his first name.

"Thank you."

The genuine smile that lit up Morse's still-bruised face was a rarity, and Peter nodded in gratitude.

"Just this once, though, Morse," he continued with a barely concealed grin. "Can't expect us to always pick up your slack." 

Morse nodded with a smile, "No, no, of course not." 

Jakes turned to leave, and gave a final nod to his colleague. "Wotcher."

The papers within neatly stacked, Morse closed the folder, placing it inside his file drawer.

"'Welcome back', indeed," he said quietly to himself, still grinning, the drawer closing with a soft click.

* * * 

Despite Morse's insistence to foot the bill for two round-trip train tickets to Lincolnshire ( _"Sir, please, I insist!" To which Thursday countered, "And miss the chance for a drive through the country on a fine day like this?"_ ), he had settled into the passenger seat of the borrowed Jag with ease. That wasn't to say, however, that Morse wasn't tense with anxiety the entire way there. 

The early Spring weather was indeed fine, blessedly drier than usual for the trip north, though Thursday knew that the gardening forecast was the absolute last item on Endeavour's perpetual motion machine of a mind at the moment. If he wasn't straightening his black tie, or his matching suit jacket, every few minutes, then he was staring at everything yet nothing in particular outside of the window as the idyllic countryside rushed by them. It had taken him an hour that morning to get his shirt and trousers on with one functioning arm, but had taken Thursday all of three minutes to position and knot his tie for him loosely, much to his embarrassment. The suit jacket hung off his right shoulder, the fabric draped over in a way to hide his cast and sling. They had even stopped briefly at the Thursday residence so that Win could apply concealer over Morse's less-faded bruises, which, unfortunately, proved to be most of them. She was gentle with her touch, and had insisted on helping in any way she could to prepare him for what was certain to be an emotionally exhausting day. The make-up, surprisingly, had been Morse's idea.

_"I wouldn't want her to see me like this," he had nervously explained._

_Win simply hugged him in response._

Both Thursday and Morse, wearing their finest black suits, now stood before the priest, the only ordained clergyman the churchyard could obtain that afternoon. To Morse, it mattered not. They were currently in his office, discussing the matters of payment and paperwork that reminded the young detective of the only two, true constants in life: death and taxes. The priest then affixed an imprinted decal above the line containing Morse's shaky, left-handed and slanted signature, and excused himself momentarily from the room. Endeavour took the opportunity to breathe in deeply, hand clutching at his tie in anticipation. A steady hand was placed on his shoulder, and with Fred Thursday's reaffirming presence, Morse let loose his grip on the thin, black fabric, and released the breath he'd been holding very slowly to calm himself. 

He could do this.

Once outside, Morse spotted the disturbed ground, stopping abruptly as he rooted himself in place. Next to the excavation sat his Mother's coffin, as vivid in person as it had been in his memories for the past sixteen years. He swallowed thickly, and simply _moved_. Head aloft, he walked towards the grave with purpose, all the while keeping his jaw and left hand clenched tightly, Thursday two steps behind. 

He could do this.

As he approached the oblong, rectangular box, for that's all it truly was, in the end, he stood silently, trying hard not to imagine the sight within. He felt Thursday sidle next to him, head downturned as the clergyman began to pray. Morse simply mirrored his movements, not listening to a single word spoken over his Mother's remains. Then, there was silence, and he startled upon feeling Fred's hand flat upon his shoulderblade, gently steering him towards the coffin.

He...could do this.

Morse glided forward, unaware that his body's motions were his own, and came to a stop beside the oblong box with the slightly-glossed veneer. He froze at its side, for all that he had ever loved was contained within that rectangular container, that _coffin_ , his dreams of a stable home life, of a carefree childhood, of a family that _loved_ him, their remains the same as his Mother's. And, he was about to bury them right back into the ground under six feet of cold, unyielding soil, with all the potential they once contained. 

He...he could...

Bringing a trembling hand to his mouth, he kissed his fingertips, cleansing them with the tears that now ran rampant down his cheeks, and firmly pressed those fingertips onto the top of his Mother's coffin.

"I'm _so sorry,_ Mum..." he whispered tremulously. 

He...

He could...

He could... _run_. 

Or, at least, he could _try_. And tried he did, for several, frantic paces.

Until an arm reached out, grip tightening on his bicep as he was swung around in place. He reacted instantly.

" _LET GO OF ME!_ " he shrieked in terror, only it wasn't Ollie that had grabbed him. 

Fred Thursday's concerned and terror-stricken visage appeared before him through a haze of tears. "Endeavour, it's only me, son! It's just me!"

He had very clearly overreacted, his face paling before Fred's very eyes.

"Sir--! Oh...oh, God, I didn't--"

Before he could bolt once more, he found himself enveloped in a comforting embrace, being held together at the moment completely by the arms that drew him into a fierce hug. Mindful of his broken wrist, Fred held onto him tightly as Morse finally unraveled at the seams, his head burrowed into his guv'nor's shoulder as his lean frame shook with unrelenting sorrow. The force of his pent-up anguish crashed into him with that of a runaway passenger train, ripping him apart at his tenuously stitched seams meant to give him the outward appearance of being put-together. He had fooled none, including himself.

Morse was a _wreck_.

But, Fred Thursday believed that one could be pulled from the wreckage of such a catastrophic event, body, mind, _and_ soul, had they each time to fully heal. For now, however, he simply held his young friend. 

For now, it would be enough.

* * *

An hour had passed in near silence since Morse's emotional breakdown, but he had insisted on staying, until Constance's remains lay securely below the earth for a second time. Fred had led him to one of the benches in the churchyard, and he sank bonelessly into it, weary beyond words. They then sat quietly for a time, as the workmen piled shovelfuls of grave dirt atop one another until a neat little mound was created. It would sink, in time. Morse had offered up a soft, "Thank you," to which Thursday responded with a slight nod.

"Think nothing of it," he had replied, and Morse knew he meant it.

Once the task was completed, Morse stood hesitantly, turning to Thursday before walking towards the mound. "I'll...be just a moment. I think I'd like to properly say goodbye, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, lad. Take your time."

Fred was glad when a single moment turned into nearly twenty, calmly biding his time on that little wooden bench under the shade tree. He was keen to recognize the first blossoms of Spring for what they were, a continuation of life's ever-spinning wheel as he sat serenely in a graveyard, no less. Before he could think himself into an existential stupor, he noted Endeavour's form approaching him, both the remnants of tears and the curve of a smile gracing his features.

"Alright, then?" Fred asked, moving to stand when Morse didn't sit immediately.

His bagman considered his question for a moment, before nodding in agreement. "Yes," he replied, lips quirking up into a grin, "yes, I think so."

Morse's eyes seemed brighter, losing a touch of their sadness from earlier. In fact, it was the most at peace he looked since just after joining on at Cowley, and Thursday was glad for it.

"You were right," Endeavour continued, glancing back over his shoulder pointedly. 

"How's that now?"

"I do feel better, after talking to someone."

Fred's eyebrows raised in surprise before the implication hit home. He, too, glanced over towards the remains of Constance Morse. "Is that so? Well, I'm glad to hear it, then."

They then walked amicably aside one another towards the Jag, Morse turning to glance up at Thursday with a playfulness in his eyes, one Fred had sorely missed over the past week. "I told her about you, and Mrs. Thursday, of course."

Fred looked askance as his bagman ducked his head, a single eyebrow cocked as he caught only the top of Morse's copper crown reflecting the light of the sun. "Of course," he parroted. "Good things, I hope?"

Turning towards him with a genuine grin, Morse replied, "Only the best, sir."

Placing a solid hand on Morse's shoulder with a comforting grip, both DC and DI continued on their stroll. It was evident at that moment to them both that 'family' wasn't just a bloodline one was born into, connected through generational ties and genealogical data. It also applied to those selected who a person chose to surround around one's self.

And in those regards, Endeavour felt he had finally found them, his true family, colleagues all.


End file.
